THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

COLLEGE 

PRESENTED  BY 

Eo'bert  Campl)ell 
in  memory  of 

EENEST  DAWSON 


ma. 

/\fC 


\ 


WRITERS     OF     THE     DAY 


Gknkral  Editor:   Bertram    Christian 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


By  SHEILA  K AYE-SMITH 

NOVELS 

THE  TRAMPING  METHODIST 

STARBRACE 

SPELL  LAND 

ISLE  OF  THORNS 

THREE  AGAINST  THE  WORLD 

SUSSEX  CORSE 

BELLES  LETT  RES 

SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 


WILLOWS  FORGE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


John  Galsworthy 


JOHN 
GALSWORTHY 


By 
SHEILA  KAYE-SMITH 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


First  Puhlished  in  iqib 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA  COLI.Er'',  LIBRARY 


47531 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

Introduction 9 

The  Plays.    I.  . 

17 

The  Plays.    II. 

35 

The  Novels.    I.        . 

,      52 

The  Novels.    II. 

.      69 

The  Sketches    . 

86 

Galsworthy  the  Artist  . 

.     100 

Bibliography     . 

.    115 

American  Bibliography    . 

.    118 

Index         .       •       •       « 

.    121 

A 


INTRODUCTION 

CHAEACTERISTIC  of  every  age 
is  its  group  of  popular  writers. 
These  writers  at  once  concentrate 
and  give  out  the  spirit  of  their  age — they 
are  representative.  Literature  has  many 
names  of  pioneers  and  apostles,  who  were 
ahead  of  or  out  of  sympathy  with  their 
times,  but  these  were  never  popular.  The 
popular  writer  is  essentially  a  man  who 
conforms  to  his  period;  it  is  true  that  his 
conformity  must  have  life  and  vigour,  it 
must  have  nothing  in  it  of  the  echo  or  the 
slave,  it  may  even  be  disguised  rather 
transparently  as  revolt — but  whatever  enter- 
prises and  excursions  he  allows  himself,  he 
remembers  that  there  are  certain  bases  which 
he  must  keep,  and  to  which  after  every 
expedition  he  must  come  back.  These  bases 
are  either  the  conventional  ideas  of  his  time, 
9 


JOHN  GALSWOKTHY 


or  the  conventional  methods  of  attacking 
them — the  two  are  for  such  purposes  the 
same. 

So  a  glance  at  our  most  popular  modern 
writers  ought  to  give  us  a  clue  as  to  the 
spirit  of  to-day.  But  here  there  is  some- 
thing bafEing — we  find  names  as  far  apart 
as  H.  G.  Wells  and  Florence  Barclay,  Arnold 
Bennett  and  Hall  Caine.  Surely  the  spirit 
of  the  age  is  not  broad  enough  to  include 
both  Joseph  Conrad  and  Marie  CoreUi. 
This  brings  us  face  to  face  with  a  modern 
complication:  we  have  two  pubhcs.  The 
spread  of  education,  with  other  causes,  has 
brought  into  being  a  mob-pubhc,  and  the 
approved  of  the  mob- public  have  a  popu- 
larity which  could  hardly  have  been  reahsed 
two  generations  ago.  The  most  popular 
writer  of  to-day  is  he  whose  appeal  is  to  the 
man  in  the  street,  and  the  largest  sales  are 
made  by  those  who  are  most  successful  in 
catering  for  this  newly  enfranchised  reader 
— with  whom  literature  and  art  have  not 
hitherto  had  much  truck,  but  with  whom 
10 


INTRODUCTION 


they  will  have  to  reckon  more  and  more  as 
time  goes  on. 

There  is,  however,  a  public  above  the 
street,  and  this  is  large  and  important 
enough  to  allow  those  who  write  for  it  to 
call  themselves  popular.  This  public  grants 
its  favour  on  grounds  literary  as  well  as 
emotional — it  is  not  enough  to  stir  its  feelings, 
one  must  tickle  its  taste.  It  is  funda- 
mentally the  same  as  the  mob  in  its  ideas, 
but  it  is  very  different  in  its  methods  of 
criticism.  The  mob  likes  to  see  its  prejudices 
upheld,  this  public  above  the  street — which 
is  the  pubhc  that  most  writers  of  any 
"  hterary  "  aspiration  supply — while  holding 
the  same  prejudices  as  strongly  at  heart, 
rather  enjoys  seeing  them  overthrown  on 
paper.  At  the  same  time  it  demands 
artistic  quality,  reahty,  and  an  occasional 
shock.  While  not  actually  gourmet^  it  is 
fastidious  in  the  matter  of  hterary  fare, 
and  it  is  characteristically  split  up  into 
chques  or  smaller  publics,  each  swearing 
by  a  particular  writer,  just  as  men  who 
11 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


are  nice  as  to  food  swear  by  a  particular 
restaurant.  There  is  a  Wells  public,  difier- 
ing  slightly  if  not  essentially  from  the 
Bennett  pubHc;  there  is  a  Kipling  pubhc 
— with  democratic  foundations;  there  is  a 
Conrad  public,  and  a  Galsworthy  pubhc — 
and  the  Galsworthy  pubhc  is  perhaps  the 
smallest  of  all. 

Indeed  Galsworthy  can  hardly  be  called 
a  "  popular "  writer.  I  am  not  using  the 
word  in  a  contemptuous  sense,  but  to  de- 
scribe a  writer  who  is  widely  read.  Gals- 
worthy will  never  be  widely  read,  for  he 
ahenates  two  important  sets  of  readers — 
those  who  insist  that  a  book  shall  teach 
them  something,  and  those  who  with  equal 
force  insist  that  it  shall  teach  them  nothing. 
He  fails  the  first  class  because,  while  supply- 
ing its  demands,  he  does  not  satisfy  the 
conditions  it  imposes.  He  undoubtedly 
has  sometliing  to  teach,  but  he  avoids  the 
direct  appeal,  which  is  what  the  pubhc 
wants.  Direct  and  open  championship  is 
the  only  way  of  making  a  cause  popular — 
12 


INTRODUCTION 


let  us  be  broad-minded,  by  all  means,  but 
agreeing  that  "  there  may  be  something  to 
say  on  the  other  side  "  is  very  different  from 
finding  out  what  that  something  is,  and 
sapng  it.  Also  he  is  too  sensitive,  too 
moderate,  too  well  balanced  to  please  the 
"  improvement  -  above-  all-  things  "  reader, 
whose  perceptions  are  not  of  the  subtlest. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  puts  himself  out  of 
touch  with  those  who  do  not  want  to  be 
taught,  because  he  undoubtedly  has  a  pro- 
paganda, and  is  not  an  artist  purely  for  art's 
sake.  Between  himself  and  the  numbers  who 
would  unhesitatingly  admire  him  as  a  man 
of  letters  he  raises  the  barrier  of  ideas  which, 
while  too  subtly  expressed  to  satisfy  those  who 
clamour  for  instruction,  are  quite  decided 
enough  to  eut  off  those  who  object  to  it. 

Thus  Galsworthy's  pubhc  is  whittled  down 
to  those  who  either  are  in  sympathy  with 
his  aims  and  methods — and  there  must  be 
few  who  understand  both — or  are  able  to 
swallow  a  small  amount  of  propaganda  for 
the  sake  of  art.  He  sets  out  to  write 
13 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


deliberately  for  no  man — he  does  not  recruit 
his  readers,  they  are  volunteers.  They 
come  to  him  from  widely  different  camps, 
and  concentrate  in  an  admiration  which  is 
perhaps  as  full  of  reserves  as  its  object. 

He  has  deliberately  rejected  all  public- 
snatching  tricks,  revealing  his  personality 
in  his  work  alone,  avoiding  the  light  of 
popular  curiosity  and  journalistic  enter- 
prise. He  has  treated  his  private  life  as  his 
own  concern,  not  as  a  bait  for  readers.  A 
judicious  use  of  his  own  personahty  and 
private  affairs  is,  broadly  speaking,  indis- 
pensable to  the  seeker  after  popularity. 
Galsworthy,  by  dishking  this,  has  necessarily 
hmited  his  pubHc  to  those  who  read  him 
for  his  work's  sake. 

In  the  bare  facts  of  his  hfe  that  he  chooses 
to  give  we  shall  find  nothing  so  interesting 
as  what  we  find  in  his  books  and  plays. 
Born  in  1867,  at  Coombe  in  Surrey,  he  was 
educated  at  Harrow  and  at  Oxford.  He  was 
called  to  the  Bar  in  1890,  but  practised 
very  Httle. 

U 


INTRODUCTION 


He  has  travelled  a  great  deal,  and  widely 
— America  and  Egjrpt,  Canada  and  the 
Cape,  British  Columbia  and  Austraha, 
Russia  and  the  Fiji  Islands.  It  was  on  the 
saihng  ship  which  carried  him  from  Adelaide 
to  South  Africa  twenty- two  years  ago  that 
he  made  friends  with  a  sailor  who  now,  as 
Joseph  Conrad,  has  a  fame  equal  to  Gals- 
worthy's own.  It  is  remarkable  that,  in 
spite  of  these  wide  wanderings,  his  plays 
and  novels  should  almost  invariably  have 
an  Enghsh  background.  Seldom,  if  ever, 
does  he  go  afield,  and  then  it  is  only  to 
some  place  more  or  less  known  to  everyone, 
such  as  Austria  in  Villa  Ruhein,  The  Dark 
Flower,  and  The  Little  Dream.  He  has  never, 
like  Conrad,  given  us  the  fruit  of  his  voyag- 
ings  on  the  far  seas,  or  his  tracks  over 
Russian  and  Canadian  plains. 

Perhaps  this  may  be  due  to  the  fact  that 
no  matter  how  far  he  may  have  wandered, 
his  roots  are  English.  Though  born  in 
Surrey,  he  is  a  Devon  man.  Galsworthy  is 
of  course  a  well-known  Devon  name,  and 
15 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


for  many  years  now  he  has  Hved  in  Devon, 
on  the  eastern  rim  of  Dartmoor. 

Again  and  again  he  gives  Devon  to  us — 
there  is  A  Man  of  Devon,  with  its  tender 
freshness  of  the  Devon  soil  sweetening  the 
strength  of  Devon  hardihood ;  there  is  A  Bit 
o'  Love,  with  its  living  and  poetic  conception 
of  Place ;  and  there  is  The  Patrician,  with  all 
the  breadth  of  the  moors  in  contrast  with 
the  httleness  of  human  passion  and  human 
reasoning.  Again,  too,  in  Riding  in  Mist,  we 
have  a  picture  of  a  mood  of  the  Devon  tors 
which  has  seldom  been  equalled  and  never 
surpassed.  Also  his  Moods,  Songs  and 
Doggerels  is  full  of  the  county,  its  scenery,  its 
men  and  women,  its  dialect,  its  rains,  its 
"  heather  gipsy"  wind.  Though  Galsworthy 
is  certainly  not  an  interpreter  of  place,  though 
his  great  novels  and  plays  deal  with  the 
mysteries  of  human  nature  rather  than  with 
local  subtleties — and  the  atmosphere  he  sheds 
over  his  work  is  generalrather  than  particular, 
the  spirit  rather  than  the  ghost — one  feels 
that  Devon  is  the  background  of  his  dreams. 
16 


THE  PLAYS 


GALSWORTHY  takes  Lis  place  in 
modern  literature  chiefly  by  virtue 
of  iiis  plays.  Criticism  may  to  a 
certain  extent  damage  him  as  a  novehst, 
but  the  most  searching  critics  cannot  leave 
him  anything  less  than  a  great  playwright. 
His  talents  are  specially  adapted  to  the 
dramatic  form,  which  at  the  same  time  does 
much  to  veil  his  weak  points.  His  mastery 
of  technique  nowhere  shows  to  greater  ad- 
vantage than  on  the  stage,  nor  has  he  better 
scope  for  his  true  sense  of  situation ;  on  the 
other  hand,  the  stage  is  a  legitimate  field 
for  propaganda,  and  the  occasional  failure 
of  the  human  interest  in  his  work  can  be 
made  good  by  the  abihty  of  the  actor. 

For  Galsworthy's  plays  have  the  advan- 
tage of  acting  well — unlike  much  literary 
B  17 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


drama,  they  are  as  effective  on  the  stage  as 
in  the  study  ;  in  fact,  they  gain  by  acting, 
because,  as  I  said,  he  has  a  tendency  now 
and  then  to  subordinate  the  human  interest 
to  the  moral,  and  this  the  actor  can  make 
good. 

He  stands  midway  between  the  purely 
hterary  and  the  purely  popular  playwright, 
and  he  also  occupies  middle  ground  between 
drama  which  is  entirely  for  instruction 
and  that  which  is  for  amusement  only. 
Poles  apart  on  one  hand  from  the  light 
comedies  of  H.  H.  Davies  and  Somerset 
Maugham,  he  has  very  little  in  common 
with  stage  preachers  such  as  Shaw  and 
Barker.  More  pohshed  and  more  subtle 
than  Houghton,  he  is  less  clear- eyed  and 
heroic  than  Masefield.  Undoubtedly  his 
most  striking  quality  as  a  dramatist  is  his 
sense  of  form  and  craft,  but  he  is  far  re- 
moved from  that  school  of  playwrights,  of 
which  Pinero  and  H.  A.  Jones  are  leaders, 
whose  technique  amounts  to  little  more 
than  a  working  knowledge  of  the  stage. 
18 


THE  PLAYS 


Galsworthy  loves,  in  his  novels  as  well 
as  his  plays,  to  deal  with  situations.  This 
is  to  a  certain  extent  detrimental  to  the 
novelist,  as  it  hampers  development,  and  a 
novel  which  does  not  develop  along  some 
hne  or  other  has  a  tendency  to  stale  or 
sohdify.  But  it  is  obvious  that  a  sense  of 
situation  is  one  of  the  first  essentials  of  a 
dramatist,  and  Galsworthy  has  it  in  full 
measure.  It  shows  pre-eminently  in  his 
central  ideas,  and  subordinately  in  his  apt 
management  of  his  curtains,  which  in  his 
best  plays  are  situations  in  themselves, 
epitomising  the  chief  issues  of  the  act  or 
scene. 

His  central  situation  is  the  moral  or  social 
problem  at  the  bottom  of  the  play.  He 
carries  on  his  propaganda  almost  entirely 
by  situation,  and  this  is  what  hfts  his  art 
above  that  of  Shaw  and  other  missionary 
dramatists.  He  practically  never  reUes 
on  dialogue  for  introducing  his  theories, 
except  so  far  as  dialogue  develops  and 
explains  the  situation.  He  depends  on  hia 
19 


JOHN  GALSWOBTHY 


characters  and  their  actions  to  enforce  his 
moral,  and  it  is  to  this  he  owes  his  artistic 
salvation. 

Having  chosen  his  situation,  he  proceeds 
to  balance  it  with  two  contrasting  groups, 
one  on  either  side.  Each  group  consists  of 
various  types,  embodying  various  points 
of  view,  which,  while  differing  to  a  shght 
extent,  are  yet  subordinate  to  the  Point  of 
View  of  the  group.  The  fact  that  his  char- 
acters are  types  rather  than  individuals  is 
all  to  his  good  as  a  dramatist,  though  we 
shall  see  later  that  it  is  a  drawback  in  the 
novels.  Types  are  always  more  convincing 
on  the  stage  than  individuals,  the  necessary 
personal  touch  being  given  by  the  actor. 
There  is  no  use  criticising  a  play  apart  from 
the  acting — the  two  are  inextricably  bound 
together,  so  that  the  author  is  in  a  sense 
only  the  collaborator;  a  play  which  was 
not  written  to  be  acted  can  scarcely  be 
called  a  play — it  is  a  novel  in  dialogue. 

Perhaps  the  best  example  of  Galsworthy's 
technique,  and  at  the  same  time  his  finest 
20 


THE  PLAYS 


achievement  as  a  playwright,  is  Strife.  Here 
we  have  the  central  situation,  the  contrast- 
ing of  groups,  the  combination  of  types — 
the  whole  so  perfectly  balanced,  and  so 
smooth- working,  that  it  does  not  creak  once. 
The  central  idea  is  the  dispute  between  the 
directors  of  the  Works  and  their  employees, 
but  it  is  impossible  to  consider  this  in  itself, 
apart  from  the  attitude  of  the  two  parties 
towards  it.  Indeed  we  are  given  a  very 
vague  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  difference ; 
all  we  know  is  that  it  has  reduced  many 
of  the  workers  to  starvation,  while  the 
directors  have  to  face  angry  shareholders  and 
failing  dividends.  Harness,  the  trades- union 
delegate,  acts  as  a  go-between,  and  gradu- 
ally both  groups  begin  to  see  the  allurements 
of  compromise.  Various  circumstances 
drive  them  towards  it,  with  the  exception 
of  their  respective  leaders,  Eoberts,  and  old 
Anthony.  The  end  is  pitiful — for  the  two 
sides  surrender  to  each  other  simultaneously, 
breaking  their  leaders'  hearts.  These  men 
are  of  extraordinary  character  and  ability, 
21 


JOHN  GALSWOKTHY 


and  of  the  most  splendid  courage,  but  they 
are  betrayed  by  their  cowardly  followers, 
who  have  not  grit  or  faith  enough  to  see 
that  their  only  chance  Hes  in  "no  com- 
promise." There  is  a  powerful  scene  be- 
tween Roberts,  the  men's  leader,  and 
Anthony,  chairman  of  the  directors,  when 
they  have  both  been  abandoned  by  their 
supporters : 

Roberts  [to  Anthony].  But  ye  have  not 
signed  them  terms !  They  can't  make 
terms  without  their  chairman !  Ye  would 
never  sign  them  terms !  [Anthony  looks 
at  him  without  sfeaking.]  Don't  tell  me  ye 
have !  for  the  love  o'  God  [with  passionate 
appeal]  I  reckoned  on  ye  ! 

Harness  [holding  out  the  Directors^  copy 
of  the  terms].  The  Board  has  signed. 

Roberts.  Then  you're  no  longer  Chair- 
man of  this  Company !  [BreaJcing  into  half- 
mad  laughter.]  Ah,  ha — Ah,  ha,  ha ! 
They've  thrown  ye  over — thrown  over  their 
Chairman :  ah — ha — ha  !  [With  a  sudden 
dreadful  calm.]  So — they've  done  us  both 
down,  Mr  Anthony. 

22 


THE  PLAYS 


There  is  also  a  social  problem  at  the 
bottom  of  Justice,  but  this  time  it  is  in 
comiection  with  the  English  law.  In  Justice 
we  have  a  bitter,  tragic  indictment  of  the 
penal  system.  We  are  given  the  psychology 
of  a  crime,  but  not  so  much  of  its  committal 
as  of  its  expiation.  We  are  shown  the  effect 
of  prison  Ufe  on  the  clerk  Falder,  and  of  its 
consequences  following  him  after  his  release, 
and  driving  him  at  last  to  suicide.  It  is 
a  wonderfully  temperate  statement  of  cruel 
facts.  Throughout  it  Galsworthy  retains 
a  perfect  command  of  his  art;  above  all 
he  avoids  any  cheap  identification  of  the 
ministers  of  a  system  with  the  system  itself. 
The  officials  of  the  court  and  of  the  prison  are 
all  shown  as  wise  and  humane  men ;  they  do 
their  best,  according  to  their  powers,  for 
those  wretches  whose  hves  are  harassed  by 
the  system  they  administrate.  It  is  the 
system  alone  which  is  in  fault. 

Perhaps  Galsworthy  has  made  a  mistake 
in  choosing  Falder  as  his  victim.  The  man 
is  of  a  type  which  would  go  under  with  a 
23 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


very  slight  push,  weak  and  changeable, 
an  extreme  case.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
shows  the  effect  of  Law  on  the  poor  and  weak 
it  is  ostensibly  there  to  protect.  He  is  one 
of  those  for  whom  Justice,  as  understood 
in  this  country,  and  indeed  most  countries, 
makes  no  provision.  He  is  a  special  case, 
and  it  is  characteristic  of  systems  and  in- 
stitutions that  they  ignore — are  to  a  certain 
extent  forced  to  ignore — the  special  case, 
which  is  almost  always  better  worth  con- 
sidering than  the  general  mass  to  which  the 
system  is  adapted.  Galsworthy  suggests 
no  remedy,  no  alternative.  He  does  not 
hint  anywhere  that  Falder  has  been  badly 
treated.  He  has  been  treated  as  well  as 
Justice  will  allow;  as  many  men  are  the 
victims  of  injustice,  so  is  he  the  victim  of 
justice  itself. 

The  play  is  not  quite  so  well  constructed 
as  Strife.  The  first  and  second  acts  cover 
mostly  the  same  ground,  and  the  action  is 
not  so  compact  or  the  chmax  so  inevitable. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  are  some  fine 
24 


THE  PLAYS 


scenes,  and  some  particularly  arresting 
characters.  Cokeson,  the  little  kind-hearted, 
humble- minded  clerk,  is  a  lovable  person, 
and  the  relations  between  Falder  and 
Ruth  Honeywill  are  studied  with  exquisite 
dehcacy  and  pathos.  The  scene  of  Falder' s 
arrest,  of  his  trial,  and  that  terrible  silent 
scene,  in  which  not  a  word  is  spoken,  but  in 
which  we  are  shown  far  more  powerfully 
than  by  any  words,  the  horror,  the  misery, 
the  madness,  of  sohtary  confinement — are 
all  memorable,  and  make  us  forgive  a  certain 
scrappiness  in  their  succession.  The  play 
ends  on  a  fine  note  of  tragedy,  when  Falder, 
re- arrested  for  obtaining  employment  by 
a  forged  character,  throws  himself  down- 
stairs rather  than  go  back  to  gaol: 

[Ruth  dro'ps  on  her  knees  hy  the  body.] 
Ruth  [in  a  whisper].  What  is  it  ?     He's 
rot    breathing.     [She    crouches    over    him.] 
My  dear !    my  pretty !  .  .  .  [Leaping  to  her 
feet.]     No,  no  !     No,  no  !     He's  dead. 

Cokeson  [stealing  forward,   in   a  hoarse 
voice].  There,  there,  poor  dear  woman. 
25 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


[Ruth  faces  round  at  him.^ 

CoKESON.  No    one' 11    touch    him    now ! 

Never  again !     He's  safe  with  gentle  Jesus. 

[Ruth  stands  as  though  turned  to  stone 

in  the  doorway,  staring  at  Cokeson, 

who,  bending  humbly  before  her,  holds 

out  his  hand  as  one  would  to  a  lost  dog. 'I 

Justice  and  Strife  both  deal  wiih  social  and 
economic  questions  in  the  larger  sense,  but 
in  the  majority  of  the  plays  the  issues  are 
more  personal.  The  Silver  Box  and  The 
Eldest  Son,  for  instance,  both  show  the 
different  standards  of  moraUty  expected  from 
the  poor  and  from  the  rich.  The  Fugitive 
is  a  study  of  the  helplessness  of  a  beautiful 
woman,  not  specially  trained,  when  she  is 
driven  to  make  her  own  way  in  life.  Joy 
shows  the  essential  selfishness  which  we  all 
bring  into  our  relations  both  with  one 
another  and  with  problems  of  conduct. 

The  Silver  Box  runs  Strife  close  as  Gals- 
worthy's masterpiece.  There  is  a  strong 
resemblance  between  its  central  idea  and 
that  of  The  Eldest  Son,  a  far  inferior  play. 
26 


THE  PLAYS 


In  The  Silver  Box  the  charwoman's  husband 
is  sent  to  gaol  for  steahng,  whereas  the  M.P.'s 
son,  who  has  also  committed  a  theft,  under 
far  more  unforgivable  circumstances,  escapes 
because  of  his  superior  position  and  wealth. 
...  In  The  Eldest  Son,  the  poor  gamekeeper  is 
threatened  with  dismissal  if  he  will  not  marry 
the  girl  he  has  betrayed,  while  the  eldest 
son  of  the  house  brings  his  father's  wrath 
upon  his  head  for  standing  by  the  lady's 
maid  he  has  put  in  the  same  position. 

The  Silver  Box  is  much  the  clearer- sighted 
of  the  two  plays ;  in  the  second  the  issues 
are  occasionally  confused,  and  both  the 
construction  and  dramatic  effect  are  inferior. 
The  Silver  Box  is  practically  flawless.  The 
two  contrasting  groups,  the  rich  and  im- 
portant Barth wicks,  and  the  poor,  good-for- 
nothing  Joneses,  are  perfectly  balanced. 
There  is  no  crude  over- emphasis  of  the  situa- 
tion, nor  inopportune  enforcement  of  the 
moral,  though  perhaps  in  the  trial  scene 
Galsworthy  is  a  little  too  anxious  to  point 
out  the  similarity  of  the  positions  of  Jack 
27 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


Barthwick  and  Jem  Jones,  and  the  differ- 
ence of  their  treatment :  "  Dad !  that's 
what  you  said  to  me  !  "  says  young  Barth- 
wick, more  pointedly  than  naturally,  when 
the  magistrate  tells  Jones  he  is  "  a  nuisance 
to  the  community." 

The  characters  are  drawn  with  great 
vividness  and  restraint.  Mrs  Jones  is  par- 
ticularly successful — pale,  quiet,  down- 
trodden, she  has  about  her  a  certain  dignified 
pathos  which  is  perfectly  human  and  natural. 
She  does  not  pose  as  a  martyr,  she  does  not 
pretend  that  she  would  not  leave  her  husband 
if  she  could  and  dared ;  the  fact  is  not  hidden 
from  us  that  her  sad- eyed  silences  must  be 
particularly  irritating  to  him.  She  does  not 
complain  over  much,  but  she  has  nothing  of 
stoical  endurance — she  endures  rather  be- 
cause she  has  been  battered  into  submission 
and  sees  the  uselessness  of  revolt.  She 
would  revolt  if  she  could. 

One  of  the  most  direct  and  convincing 
scenes  in  the  play  is  that  between  these  two, 
in  their  home,  when  Mrs  Jones  discovers 
28 


THE  PLAYS 


that   her   husband    has    stolen   the    silver 
box. 

Jones.  I've  had  a  bit  of  luck.  Picked  up 
a  purse — seven  pound  and  more. 

Mrs  Jones.     Oh,  James  ! 

Jones.  Oh,  James !  What  about  oh, 
James  !  I  picked  it  up,  I  tell  you.  This  is 
lost  property,  this  is. 

Mrs  Jones.  But  isn't  there  a  name  in  it 
or  something  ? 

Jones.  Name  !  No,  there  ain't  no  name. 
This  don't  belong  to  such  as  'ave  visitin' 
cards.  This  belongs  to  a  perfec'  lidy.  Tike 
an'  smell  it.  Now,  you  tell  me  what  I 
ought  to  have  done.  You  tell  me  that. 
You  can  always  tell  me  what  I  ought  to 
ha'  done. 

Mrs  Jones.  I  can't  say  what  you  ought 
to  have  done,  James.  Of  course  the  money 
wasn't  yours;  you've  taken  somebody 
else's  money. 

Jones.  Finding's  keeping.  I'll  take  it  as 
wages  for  the  time  I've  gone  about  the 
streets  asking  for  what's  my  rights.  I'll 
take  it  for  what's  overdue,  d'ye  hear  ?  I've 
got  money  in  my  pocket,  my  girl.  Money 
in  my  pocket !  And  I'  m  not  going  to  waste 
29 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


it.  With  this  'ere  money  I'm  going  to 
Canada.  I'll  let  you  have  a  pound.  You've 
often  talked  of  leavin'  me.  You've  often 
told  me  I  treat  you  badly — well  I  'ope  you'll 
be  glad  when  I'm  gone. 

Mrs  Jones.  You  have  treated  me  very 
badly,  James,  and  of  course  I  can't  prevent 
your  going ;  but  I  can't  tell  whether  I  shall 
be  glad  when  you're  gone. 

Jones.  It'll  change  my  luck.  I've  'ad 
nothing  but  bad  luck  since  I  took  up  with 
you.     And  you've  'ad  no  bloomin'  picnic. 

Mrs  Jones.  Of  course  it  would  have  been 
better  for  us  if  we  had  never  met.  We 
weren't  meant  for  each  other.  But  you're 
set  against  me,  that's  what  you  are,  and 
you  have  been  for  a  long  time.  And  you 
treat  me  so  badly,  James,  going  after  that 
Rosie  and  all.  You  don't  ever  seem  to 
think  of  the  children  that  I've  had  to  bring 
into  the  world,  and  of  all  the  trouble  I've 
had  to  keep  them,  and  what' 11  become  of 
them  when  you're  gone. 

Jones.  If  you  think  I  want  to  leave  the 
little  beggars  you're  bloomin'  well  mistaken. 

Mrs  Jones.  Of  course  I  know  you're 
fond  of  them. 

Jones.  Well  then,  you  stow  it,  old  girl. 
30 


THE  PLAYS 


The  kids' 11  get  along  better  with  you  than 
when  I'm  here.  If  I'd  ha'  known  as  much 
as  I  do  now,  I'd  never  ha'  had  one  o'  them. 
What's  the  use  o'  bringin'  'em  into  a  state 
o'  things  hke  this  ?  It's  a  crime,  that's  what 
it  is ;  but  you  find  it  out  too  late ;  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  this  'ere  world. 

Mks  Jones.  Of  course  it  would  have  been 
better  for  them,  poor  httle  things ;  but 
they're  your  own  children,  and  I  wonder  at 
you  talkin'  like  that.  I  should  miss  them 
dreadfully  if  I  was  to  lose  them. 

Jones.  And  you  ain't  the  only  one.     If 

I  make  money  out  there [Looking  up  he 

sees  her  shaking  out  his  coat — in  a  changed 
voice.]     Leave  that  coat  alone ! 

[The  silver  box  drops  from  the  pocket, 
scattering  the  cigarettes  upon  the  bed. 
Taking  up  the  box,  she  stares  at  it ; 
he  rushes  at  her,  and  snatches  the  box 
away.] 
Mrs  Jones.  Oh,  Jem !     Oh,  Jem ! 
Jones.  You   mind  what  you're  sayin' ! 
When  I  go  out  I'll  take  and  chuck  it  in  the 
water  along  with  that  there  purse.     I  'ad 
it  when  I  was  in  liquor,  and  for  what  you 
do  when  you're  in  liquor  you're  not  respon- 
sible— and  that's  Gawd's  truth  as  you  ought 
81 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


to  know.  I  don't  want  the  thing — I  won't 
have  it.  I  took  it  out  o'  spite.  I'm  no 
thief,  I  tell  you ;  and  don't  you  call  me  one, 
or  it'll  be  the  worse  for  you. 

Mes  Jones.  It's  Mr  Barth wick's !  You've 
taken  away  my  reputation.  Oh,  Jem, 
whatever  made  you  ? 

Jones.  What  d'you  mean? 

Mrs  Jones.  It's  been  missed;  they  think 
it's  me.  Oh,  whatever  made  you  do  it, 
Jem? 

Jones.  I  tell  you  I  was  in  liquor.  I  don't 
want  it ;  what's  the  good  of  it  to  me  ?  If  I 
were  to  pawn  it  they'd  only  nab  me.  I'm 
no  thief.  I'm  no  worse  than  what  young 
Barth  wick  is;  he  brought  'ome  that  purse 
I  picked  up — a  lady's  purse — 'ad  it  off  'er  in 
a  row,  kept  sayin'  e'd  scored  'er  off.  Well 
I  scored  'im  off.  Tight  as  an  owl  'e  was! 
And  d'you  think  anything' 11  happen  to  him  ? 

Mrs  Jones.  Oh,  Jem!  It's  the  bread 
out  of  our  mouths. 

Jones.  Is  it,  then?  I'll  make  it  hot  for 
'em  yet.  What  about  that  purse.  What 
about  young  Barthwick. 

[Mrs  Jones  comes  forward  to  the  table, 
and  tries  to  take  the  box ;  Jones 
'prevents  her.] 

32 


THE  PLAYS 


Jones.  What  do  you  want  with  that. 
You  drop  it,  I  say ! 

Mes  Jones.  I'll  take  it  back,  and  tell 
them  all  about  it.  [She  attempts  to  wrest 
the  box  from  him.'] 

Jones.  Ah,  would  yer  ? 

[He  drops  the  box,  and  rushes  on  her 
with  a  snarl.  She  slips  back  past 
the  bed.  He  follows  ;  a  chair  is  over- 
turned. .  .  .] 

In  The  Eldest  Son  we  have  the  same  idea 
not  quite  so  effectively  handled — the  con- 
trast between  the  codes  of  ethics  required 
from  the  poor  and  from  the  rich.  There 
are  some  good  scenes  in  the  play,  notably 
that  between  Bill  and  Freda  in  the  first 
act,  and  that  towards  the  end,  when  the 
whole  Cheshire  family  is  brought  into  action 
against  Freda  and  her  sturdy  old  father,  who 
at  last  suddenly  solves  the  difiiculty  by 
saying:  "  I'll  have  no  charity  marriage  in 
my  family,"  and  leading  his  daughter  away. 
Also  the  characters  of  Sir  Wilham  Cheshire 
and  of  his  wife  are  great  achievements, 
both  strong  and   delicate.     But  the   play 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


has  not  the  grip  or  the  reahty  of  The  Silver 
Box. 

The  failure  hes  in  a  certain  lack  of 
cohesion  and  inevitableness  in  the  whole. 
The  rehearsal  of  Caste^  which  is  introduced 
in  the  second  act,  points  the  moral  rather 
too  obviously.  Also  the  central  idea  is 
hampered  by  the  fact  that  the  two  illustra- 
tive cases  are  not  really  parallel.  In  The 
Silver  Box  the  theft  by  young  Barthwick  is 
just  as  blameworthy  as  that  by  Jones. 
Their  positions  are  quite  the  same,  except 
that,  indeed,  it  is  the  man  of  wealth  who  is 
the  more  despicable  and  deserving  of  punish- 
ment. But  no  one  can  say  that  Bill 
Cheshire  and  Freda  Studdenham  are  in 
the  same  position  as  the  gamekeeper  and 
the  village  girl.  There  are  objections  to  the 
marriage  of  Bill  and  Freda  which  do  not 
exist  in  the  other  case.  Certainly  there 
are  objections  to  that  too,  but  the  fact 
remains  that  the  two  examples  are  not 
parallel. 


34 


THE  PLAYS 
II 

THERE  are  social  and  economic  ideas 
at  the  bottom  of  The  Fugitive^ 
which  is  to  a  certain  extent  sym- 
bohcal — a  study  of  woman's  position  when, 
for  any  reason,  she  is  separated  from  the 
herd.  But  in  this,  as  in  other  of  his  later 
plays,  Galsworthy's  command  of  his  art  is 
not  equal  to  his  enthusiasm  for  his  subject. 
IMoving  and  forcible  as  it  all  is,  it  has  not 
the  balance,  the  inevitableness,  of  Strife  or 
The  Silver  Box.  We  feel  that  events  are 
being  arranged  to  suit  the  basic  theory. 
The  career  of  Clare  Dedmond,  from  her 
revolt  to  her  downfall,  is  not  a  thing  fore- 
seen, a  thing  of  fate.  We  feel  somehow  that 
her  end  is  arbitrary — at  all  events  we  are  not 
shown  the  steps  that  lead  to  it.  The  actual 
catastrophes  we  witness  do  not  demand  it. 
35 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


None  the  less  the  study  of  Clare  is  arrest- 
ing— the  woman  who  is  "  fine,  but  not  fine 
enough."  She  alienates  our  sympathies  a 
Httle  in  the  first  act;  there  is  no  denying 
that  she  behaves  childishly,  and  her  husband, 
uncongenial  as  he  may  be,  is  not  quite  such 
a  bounder  as  Mahse,  in  whom,  apparently, 
she  finds  satisfaction.  But  somehow  that 
whole  first  act  has  an  air  of  unreahty  about 
it,  a  remoteness  from  life,  and  a  staginess 
we  do  not  expect  from  Galsworthy.  Later 
on  the  movement  becomes  swifter,  and  we 
have  the  sense  of  impending  tragedy,  which 
is  realised  in  the  scene  where  Clare  leaves 
Malise,  though  she  loves  him  and  he  is  her 
only  protector,  because  she  discovers  that 
she  has  become  a  drag  on  him  and  is  spoiling 
his  career. 

The  scene  at  the  Restaurant,  too,  has  its 
fine  points,  thought  it  is  spoilt  by  a  riot  of 
symbohsm  and  a  tendency  towards  false 
sentiment.  The  continuous  singing  of  "  This 
Day  a  Stag  must  die"  by  the  revellers  at 
another  table  is  rather  an  obvious  and  cheap 
36 


THE  PLAYS 


effect,  so  too  the  courtesan's  kiss  as  the 
curtain  falls.  On  the  whole  one  feels  that 
The  Fugitive  is  a  play  in  which  the  author's 
plan  has  been  better  conceived  than  carried 
out. 

The  central  situations  of  Joy  and  of  The 
Mob  have  nothing  to  do  with  any  social  or 
economic  problem,  even  in  a  narrowed, 
personal  sense.  They  deal  with  conduct, 
and  special  cases  of  conduct.  Joy  and  The 
Mob,  with  A  Bit  o'  Love,  stand  at  the  bottom 
of  the  scale  at  the  top  of  which  are  Justice 
and  Strife.  The  interest  of  the  two  latter  is 
centred  in  the  social  and  industrial  problems 
they  are  built  on;  then  come  The  Silver 
Box,  The  Eldest  Son,  and  The  Fugitive,  in 
which  the  social  problem  undoubtedly  exists, 
but  which  depend  for  interest  on  its  personal 
variations;  then  come  Joy,  The  Mob,  and 
A  Bit  o'  Love,  in  which  the  interest  is  purely 
personal  and  unconnected  with  any  social 
idea. 

Joy  is  a  play  built  round  an  attitude  rather 
than  a  problem.  "  A  Play  on  the  Letter  I " 
37 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


is  the  sub- title,  and  from  first  to  last  we  see 
how  the  consideration  of  self  is  the  govern- 
ing motive  of  widely  different  characters. 
We  see  it  working  openly,  in  characters 
that  are  frankly  and  aggressively  egotistic ; 
we  see  it  acting  more  subtly  in  characters 
of  a  different  stamp.  The  one  person  who 
is  free  from  it  is  the  old  governess.  Miss 
Beech,  who  Hves  only  in  her  interest  in 
those  around  her.  Somehow,  as  is  often  the 
case  with  characters  purposely  in  contrast 
with  his  general  scheme,  Galsworthy  is 
occasionally  artificial  in  dealing  with  Miss 
Beech.  Her  "  devilishness "  is  more  than 
once  a  trifle  forced — the  author  so  obviously 
wants  her  to  be  original,  unlike  both  the 
conventional  stage  governess,  and  the  con- 
ventionally selfless  person.  She  fills  to  a 
certain  extent  the  position  of  Chorus,  and 
her  vocation  takes  from  her  humanity. 
She  becomes,  as  the  play  goes  on,  more  and 
more  of  a  Voice. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
humanity  about  Joy  herself  and  her  mother. 
38 


THE  PLAYS 


Mrs  Gwyn's  lover,  Maurice  Lever,  is  also 
real  enough,  though  the  same  cannot  always 
be  said  of  Joy's  Dick.  The  scenes  between 
the  young  people  ring  true,  but  the  boy 
loses  reahty  when  away  from  Joy;  he 
becomes  more  a  part  of  stage  machinery. 

In  spite  of  some  languors,  the  play  is 
quick- moving  and  closely  knit,  and  the 
author  keeps  the  central  situation  well  in 
hand.  There  are  one  or  two  haunting  scenes 
— the  scenes  of  young  love  between  Joy  and 
Dick,  the  scenes  of  older,  sadder  love,  more 
passionate  and  more  disillusioned,  between 
Mrs  Gwyn  and  Lever — and  one  particularly 
good  scene  between  Mrs  Gwyn  and  Joy, 
after  the  girl  has  discovered  her  mother's 
secret. 

Joy  [covering  her  face].  I'm  —  I'm 
ashamed. 

Mrs  Gwyn.  I  brought  you  into  the  world ; 
and  you  say  that  to  me  ?  Have  I  been  a 
bad  mother  to  you  ? 

Joy.  Oh,  mother ! 

Mrs  Gwyn.  Ashamed?  Am  /  to  live 
39 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


all  my  life  like  a  dead  woman  because  you're 
ashamed  ?  Am  I  to  live  like  the  dead 
because  you're  a  child  that  knows  nothing 
of  life  ?  .  .  .  D'you  think — because  I 
suffered  when  you  were  born  and  because 
I've  suffered  since  with  every  ache  you  ever 
had,  that  gives  you  the  right  to  dictate  to 
me  now?  I've  been  unhappy  enough,  and 
I  shall  be  unhappy  enough  in  the  time  to 
come.  Oh,  you  untouched  things,  you're 
as  hard  and  cold  as  iron. 

Joy.  I  would  do  anything  for  you,  mother. 

Mks  Gwyn.  Except — let  me  live,  Joy. 
That's  the  only  thing  you  won't  do  for  me, 
I  quite  understand. 

Joy  \in  a  des fairing  whis'per].  But  it's 
wrong  of  you — it's  wicked. 

Mrs  Gwyn.  If  it's  wicked,  /  shall  pay  for 
it,  not  you. 

Joy.  But  I  want  to  save  you,  mother ! 

Mrs  Gwyn.  Save  me?  [Breaking  into 
laughter.'] 

Joy.  I  can't  bear  it  that  you — if  you'll 
only — I'll  never  leave  you  ...  oh,  mother ! 
I  feel — I  feel  so  awful — as  if  everybody  knew. 

Mrs  Gwyn.  You  think  I'm  a  monster  to 
hurt  you.  Ah!  yes!  You'll  understand 
better  some  day. 

40 


THE  PLAYS 


Joy  [in  a  sudden  hurst  of  excited  fear].  I 
won't  believe  it — I — I — can't — you're  de- 
serting me,  mother. 

Mes  Gwyn.  Oh,  you  untouched  things! 

You 

[Joy  looJcs  up  suddenly,  sees  her  face, 
and  sinks  down  on  her  Jcnees.'] 
Joy.  Mother — it's  for  me  ! 
Mes  Gwyn.  Ask  for  my  life,  Joy — don't 
be  afraid! 

[Joy  turns  her  face  away.  Mes  Gwyn 
bends  suddenly  and  touches  her 
daughter's  hair ;  Joy  shrinks  from 
that  touch,  recoiling  as  if  she  had 
been  stung.] 
Mes  Gwyn.  I  forgot — I'm  deserting  you. 
[And  swiftly  without  looking  back  she 
goes  away.  Joy  left  alone  under  the 
hollow  tree  crouches  lower,  and  her 
shoulders  shake.] 

The  Mob  is  rather  an  irritating,  unsatis- 
factory play.  It  is  meant  to  be  a  study  in 
ideals,  but  it  is  astonishing  how  blunderingly 
and  at  the  same  time  how  coldly  Galsworthy 
puts  these  ideals  before  us.  The  title  is  also 
a  mistake.  The  attitude  of  the  mob  towards 
41 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


Stephen  More  is  merely  of  secondary  and 
artificial  importance.  He  meets  his  death 
at  its  hands,  it  is  true,  but  it  plays  Httle 
part  in  the  spiritual  fight  he  wages.  The 
exhibition,  in  a  final  tableau,  of  its  changing 
fancy — in  the  statue  it  erects  to  his  memory 
— is  dangerously  near  anti-chmax,  and  no 
integral  part  of  the  whole.  One  cannot  see 
that  the  mob  is  anywhere  a  dominant  force 
— it  is  an  incident,  far  less  important  here 
than  in  Strife,  though  there  is  one  scene  in 
which  Galsworthy  shows  again,  as  he  showed 
in  Strife,  his  power  of  deahng  with  stage 
crowds : 

[More  turns  and  mounts  the  steps."] 
Tall  Youth.  You  blasted  traitor. 
[More  faces  round  at  the  volley  of  jeering 
that  follows ;    the   chorus   of  booing 
swells,  then  gradually  dies,  as  if  they 
realised  that  they  were  spoiling  their 
own  sport.l 
A  Rough  Girl.  Don't  frighten  the  poor 
feller. 

\A  girl  beside  her  utters  a  shrill  laugh.] 
More.  Well,  what  do  you  want  ? 
42 


THE  PLAYS 


Voice.  A  speech. 
More.  Indeed !   That's  new. 
EouGH  Voice.  Look  at  his  white  liver. 
You  can  see  it  in  his  face. 
A  Big  Navvy.  Shut  it.  Give'imachanst. 
Tall   Youth.     Silence  for  the  blasted 
traitor  ? 

[A  youth  plays  on  the  concertina  ;  there 
is  laughter,  then  an  abrupt  silence.'\ 

.  .  .  and  so  on. 

The  whole  of  this  scene  is  vigorous  and 
convincing,  so  too  the  scene  of  More's  death ; 
but  again  and  again  we  are  irritated  by  the 
way  Galsworthy  misses  his  chances.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  scene  in  which  Katherine 
uses  her  beauty  and  his  love  for  her  to  tempt 
More  from  his  ideal — it  is  full  of  magnificent 
opportunities,  and  there  is  some  fine  stufi 
in  it,  but  somehow  it  misses  fire.  This  may 
be  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  in  his  later 
plays  Galsworthy's  restraint  occasionally 
seems  to  lose  its  force.  Economy  of  words 
and  emotion  is  effective  only  when  used  to 
control  the  riches  of  both. 
43 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


A  Bit  o'  Love  is  in  a  sense  the  most  personal 
of  all  the  plays — I  say  in  a  sense,  because, 
for  the  first  time,  we  find  Galsworthy  de- 
finitely exploiting  Place.  The  importance 
of  Place  in  literature  is  a  comparatively 
new  discovery,  for  we  must  not  count  the 
descriptive  and  local  novels  which  have  been 
with  us  more  or  less  from  the  first.  Studies 
in  Place,  which  set  out  defiberately  to  bring 
forward  the  personality — if  I  may  use  the 
term — of  Place,  are  only  just  beginning,  and 
Galsworthy,  with  A  Bit  o'  Love ,  comes  among 
the  pioneers.  It  is  his  latest  play,  and  it 
will  be  interesting  to  watch  if  he  chooses  to 
develop  along  this  Hne. 

We  have  the  Devonshire  village  as  a 
central  character  in  the  piece — the  various 
types  which  compose  it  are  just  so  many 
parts  of  the  whole,  and  it  would  be  a  mistake 
to  treat  them  as  separate  persons.  The 
village  is  at  once  sturdy  and  sweet  and 
foolish,  it  is  curious,  it  is  pig-headed — it  is 
built  of  the  wisps  of  moon-and-dew  cobwebs, 
and  of  the  sty-door  stakes  from  which  they 
44 


THE  PLAYS 


float.  It  is  the  common  life  of  the  village 
which  is  dealt  with  here,  rather  than 
subtleties  of  atmosphere — the  actual  locality 
has  no  definite  existence  apart  from  its 
inhabitants,  which  is  a  milder  practice  of  the 
art  of  Place.  But  the  central  idea  is  the 
same  as  in  all  Place  studies — the  efiect  of 
the  Place  on  the  Man. 

The  man  here  is  Michael  Strangway, 
curate  of  the  village,  "  a  gentle  creature 
burnt  within,"  who  plays  the  flute,  and 
loves  dumb  animals,  and  acts  St  Francis 
without  the  adorable  Franciscan  coarseness. 
His  wife  pleads  with  him  not  to  ruin  her 
lover's  career  by  bringing  a  divorce,  and 
for  love  of  her  he  promises.  Unfortunately 
the  interview  is  overheard  by  a  little  gossip- 
ing village  girl  who  has  a  grudge  against 
him  because  he  had  set  free  her  imprisoned 
skylark.  The  news  is  spread,  and  the 
village  is  righteously  indignant,  wrath 
culminating  when  the  curate  crowns  his 
impious  toleration  by  falling  upon  the  man 
who  has  used  a  few  plain  words  about  his 
45 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


wife  in  a  public -house.  Attacked  and 
shunned  on  all  sides  for  his  attempt  at  a 
literal  gospel,  and  betrayed  within  by  the 
ache  and  emptiness  of  his  heart,  the  curate 
resolves  on  suicide,  but  is  rather  tritely 
saved  at  the  last  moment  by  the  little 
che-ild  of  such  occasions,  who  offers  him 
"  a  bit  o'  love." 

There  is  some  good  work  in  the  play,  an 
atmosphere  of  beautiful  wistfuhiess,  tenderly 
combined  with  the  bumpkin  clump  and  flit. 
The  dance  in  the  big  barn  has  its  full  effect 
of  mystic  and  rustic  beauty;  there  is  in- 
finite pathos  in  Strangway  and  Cremer 
setting  out  for  a  long  tramp  together  in  the 
link  of  their  bruised  hearts — and  Galsworthy 
has  done  nothing  more  kindly-humorous 
than  the  meeting  at  the  village  inn,  with  Sol 
Potter  uneasily  in  the  chair. 

The  play  is  beautifully  written,  but  it 
would  seem  as  if  the  author  had  scarcely  a 
clear  idea  himself  of  Strangway,  and  a  little 
more  planning  might  have  saved  him 
from  one  or  two  banaUties,  The  extreme 
46 


THE  PLAYS 


individuality,  so  to  speak,  of  the  curate's 
problem — for  no  one  can  deny  that  his  was 
an  exceptional  case — is  a  bit  in  the  way  of 
a  writer  whose  chief  concern  is  the  social 
and  general.  But  we  must  give  a  particular 
welcome  to  A  Bit  d*  Love,  because  it  is 
Galsworthy'' s  first  real  experiment  in  Place, 
and  one  has  a  feeling  that  here  is  a  grand 
new  road  for  him  to  tread. 

There  remain  two  plays,  which  are  called 
respectively  "  A  Fantasy "  and  "  An 
Allegory" — The  Pigeon  and  The  Little 
Dream, 

The  first  is  a  fantasy  based  on  sober  facts. 
Indeed  it  would  be  rightly  called  a  satire. 
It  is  a  study — carried  through  in  a  spirit  of 
comedy,  in  spite  of  drunkenness,  vice, 
poverty,  and  suicide — of  three  irreclaimables, 
and  of  those  who  would  reclaim  them. 
Old  Timson,  the  drunkard;  Mrs  Megan, 
born  light  of  love,  who  even  while  drowning 
thinks  of  dancing ;  Ferrand,  the  vagabond, 
the  wanderer  of  quaint  philosophy — they  are 
a  fantastic  trio,  because  the  sorrow  and 
47 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


sordidness  of  their  lives  is  all  hazed  over  by 
this  haK- comic,  half- satiric  glow  in  which 
their  creator  chooses  to  see  them.  In  them- 
selves more  hopeless  and  tragic  than  any  of 
the  characters  in  Strife  or  Justice,  they  raise 
smiles  instead  of  tears.  It  would  seem 
almost  as  if  the  tragedy  of  the  outcast  had 
stirred  in  Galsworthy  those  depths  beyond 
sorrow,  which  can  find  no  expression  save  in 
laughter. 

Various  theorists  argue  about  these  three 
outcasts,  and  one  good-natured  man  be- 
friends them.  AVellwyn  is  a  kindly  study, 
and  his  easy  methods,  however  much  his 
practical  little  daughter  may  blame  him, 
do  more  to  humanise  the  poor  wretches  than 
the  sterner  tactics  of  Professor  Calway  or 
Sir  Thomas  Huxton.  But  as  a  matter  of 
fact  no  generosity  will  meet  the  case,  no 
theory.  We  can  only  laugh,  and  through 
laughter  learn  a  little  more  of  pity. 

There  is  some  dehghtful  humour  in  The 
Pigeon.  As  a  rule  Galsworthy's  humour  is 
too  deeply  tinged  with  bitterness  to  ring 
48 


THE  PLAYS 


true ;  when  it  is  not  embittered  it  is  often 
ineffective  or  trivial,  as  in  Joy  or  The  Eldest 
Son.  In  The  Pigeon,  however,  there  are 
scenes  of  genuine  humour  and  fine  satire, 
both  in  situation  and  in  dialogue.  The  vari- 
ous conceptions  of  character  too  are  essenti- 
ally humorous,  which  is  seldom,  if  ever,  the 
case  in  the  other  plays.  It  is  a  sharp 
stroke  which  right  at  the  end  of  the  play 
avenges  the  kindly  Pigeon  whom  everyone 
has  plucked. 

Chief    Humble-man   [in  an  attitude  of 
expectation].  This  is  the  larst  of  it,  sir. 
Wellwyn.  Oh  !   Ah  !   Yes  ! 

[He  gives  them  money  ;  then  something 
seems  to  strike  him  and  he  exhibits 
certain  signs  of  vexation.  Suddenly 
he  recovers,  looks  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  then  at  the  tea-things.  A  faint 
smile  comes  on  his  face.] 
Wellwyn.  You  can  finish  the  decanter. 

[He  goes  out  in  haste.] 
Chief  Humble- man  [clinking  the  coins]. 
Third   time  of  arskin'  !     April  fool !     Not 
'arf.     Good  old  Pigeon! 

D  #49 

\ 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


Second  Humble-man.  'Uman  being,  I 
call  'im. 

Chief  Humble-man  [taking  three  glasses 
from  the  last  packing-case,  and  pouring  very 
equally  into  them].  That's  right.  Tell  you 
wot,  I'd  never  'a'  touched  this  unless  'e'd 
told  me,  I  wouldn't — not  with  'im. 

Second    Humble-man.  Ditto    to    that ! 
This  is  a  bit  of  orl  right !     [Raising  his  glass.] 
Good  luck ! 
Third  Humble-man.  Same  'ere ! 

[Simultaneously    they    place    their    lips 
smartly  against  the  liquor,  and  at  once 
let  fall  their  faces  and  their  glasses.] 
Chief  Humble- man  [with  great  solemnity]. 
Crikey!    Bill!   Tea/  .  .  .  Wsgot  us! 
[The  stage  is  blotted  dark.] 

The  Little  Dream  is  rather  a  bitter  allegory 
of  the  adventures  of  the  soul  in  search  of 
life  and  happiness.  Seelchen,  the  little 
mountain  girl,  hears  the  call  of  the  Wine 
Horn,  typifying  the  dehghts  of  the  town  and 
the  world,  and  the  Cow  Horn,  typifying 
the  pleasures  of  her  mountain  home,  but 
there  is  a  strange  resemblance  in  the  hard 
disillusions  they  are  bound  to  offer  after  their 
60 


THE  PLAYS 


gifts,  and  only  the  lonely  Great  Horn  behind 
points  to  something  finer  and  higher.  There 
is  really  not  much  interest,  or  indeed,  much 
originaHty  in  the  little  sketch,  but  there  is 
some  beautiful  language,  and  Galsworthy 
is  able  to  give  free  rein  to  his  sense  of  words 
and  poetic  faculty.  There  is  real  poetry  in 
some  of  the  lyrics,  and  by  them,  rather  than 
by  his  pubhshed  volume  of  verse,  one  judges 
him  poet  as  well  as  playwright. 

"  0  flame  that  treads  the  marsh  of  time, 

Flitting  for  ever  low, 
Where,  through  the  black  enchanted  slime. 

We,  desperate,  following  go — 
Untimely  fire,  we  bid  thee  stay  I 

Into  dark  air  above. 
The  golden  gipsy  thins  away — 

So  has  it  been  with  love. 


81 


THE  NOVELS 
I 

THOUGH  undoubtedly  Galsworthy 
owes  his  position  as  an  artist  and  as 
a  thinking  force  to  his  plays,  he  still 
carries  considerable  weight  as  both  in  his 
novels.  That  his  novels  have  not  the  value, 
whether  social  or  literary,  of  his  plays — that 
indeed  his  position  as  a  novelist  is  largely 
due  to  his  fame  as  a  playwright — does  not 
make  away  with  the  fact  that  he  has  given 
us  some  half-dozen  novels  of  standing,  which 
are  worth  consideration  in  themselves,  apart 
from  anything  their  author  may  have  done 
in  other  fields. 

His  lack  of  complete  success  as  a  novehst 
is  partly  due  to  those  characteristics  which 
have  made  him  so  successful  as  a  playwright. 
The  drama  is  a  lawful  means  of  propaganda, 
the  novel  is  not — Galsworthy's  plays  gain 
62 


THE  NOVELS 


enormously  from  the  social  or  moral  prob- 
lems at  their  base,  while  the  same  problems 
have  a  tendency  to  constrict  or  impede  the 
development  of  his  novels.  A  play  is  de- 
pendent mainly  on  its  craft,  for  this  is  a 
point  which  lies  solely  with  the  author,  in 
which  no  actor,  however  skilful,  can  help 
him;  on  the  other  hand,  a  novel  depends 
chiefly  on  its  human  interest,  and  this  the 
author  must  supply  himself,  since  he  has  no 
intermediaries  to  make  good  where  he  fails. 
There  is  little  doubt  that  abstract  ideas  do 
not  help  the  human  interest  of  a  novel.  It 
is  remarkable  how  small  a  part  the  abstract 
plays  in  the  lives  of  even  the  most  thoughtful 
of  us,  and  anything  in  the  nature  of  a 
problem  or  an  idea,  of  anything  belonging 
to  the  brain  rather  than  to  the  heart,  has  a 
tendency  to  destroy  the  illusion  of  real  Hfe 
which  it  is  the  chief  object  of  a  novelist  to 
create. 

Another  reason  why  Galsworthy  is  more 
successful  in  his  plays  than  in  his  novels 
is  that  most  good  plays  are  founded  on  a 
63 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


situation,  most  good  novels  on  tlie  develop- 
ment of  a  situation,  and  development  is  not  a 
characteristic  of  Galsworthy's  art.  He  likes 
to  take  a  situation,  examine  it  from  char- 
acteristic and  conflicting  points  of  view,  and 
show  the  effect  it  has  on  different  lives,  but 
he  never  attempts  to  develop  it,  to  start  a 
chain  of  events  from  it,  mould  characters 
by  it.  Practically  every  character  in  a 
Galsworthy  novel,  with  the  possible  excep- 
tion of  The  Dark  Flower,  is  the  same  at  the 
end  as  at  the  beginning.  This  means  that 
in  his  novels  he  is  still  a  playwright  as  far 
as  both  situation  and  character  are  con- 
cerned. He  develops  neither,  he  never  goes 
forward,  he  goes  round.  The  result  is  that 
his  novels  are  mostly  plays  in  novel  form,  and 
they  suffer  in  consequence. 

In  fact  all  the  drawbacks  of  the  novels 
may  be  said  to  arise  from  defects  in  the 
human  interest  so  essential  to  a  novelist. 
It  is  not  that  Galsworthy  does  not  feel,  and 
most  passionately,  for  his  characters,  neither 
is  it  that  they  are  not  flesh  and  blood,  nor 
54 


THE  NOVELS 


that  their  stories  are  not  real  and  moving. 
It  is  rather  because  they  are  types,  not 
individuals,  and  types  chosen  to  fit  some 
particular  situation  which  has  been  already 
selected.  They  are  never  mere  pegs  or  mere 
puppets,  but  somehow  there  is  nothing 
creative  about  them ;  they  lack  the  individual 
touch  which  the  actor  can  impart  to  a  char- 
acter in  a  play,  but  which  the  author  alone 
can  give  in  a  novel.  Also  they  repeat  them- 
selves, there  is  not  enough  diversity;  the 
same  groups  arrange  themselves  in  differ- 
ent novels.  Of  course  there  are  exceptions — 
Lord  Miltoun  in  The  Patrician,  Mr  Stone  in 
Fraternity — but  these,  on  examination,  prove 
to  be  only  a  fining  down  of  the  type  till  it 
is  almost  an  individual ;  there  is  no  definite 
creation. 

However,  against  this  defect,  which  is 
due  to  the  intrusion  of  the  playwright  into 
the  novelist's  sphere,  we  must  set  a  wonder- 
ful and  seldom- failing  craft,  which  goes  far 
to  justify  that  intrusion.  There  are  few 
novelists  with  a  finer  sense  of  form  than 
55 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


Galsworthy,  few  with  a  finer  sense  of  style 
— the  conciseness  of  the  dramatist  teaches 
him  the  need  of  arrangement  and  the  full 
value  to  be  wrung  out  of  a  word.  In  one 
point  only  does  the  dramatist  fail  the 
novehst,  and  that,  strange  to  say,  is  in 
dialogue.  Again  and  again  the  dialogue  in 
the  novels  fails  flat,  or  is  stilted,  or  irrelevant 
— and  it  is  curious,  when  we  remember  how 
strong  the  plays  are  in  this  respect. 

There  is  a  certain  inequality  about  the 
seven  novels :  The  Island  Pharisees,  The  Man 
of  Property,  The  Country  House,  Fraternity, 
The  Patrician,  The  Dark  Flower,  and  The 
Freelands.  In  every  way  the  first  is  the 
weakest,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  last 
is  not  the  most  successful.  The  finest 
are  The  Man  of  Property  and  Fraternity. 
Undoubtedly  Galsworthy  is  at  his  best 
when  his  technique  is  at  its  highest  pitch 
of  excellence,  and  weakest  when  his  sense 
of  form  most  fails  him.  Form  is  never 
used  by  him  to  cover  defects  of  interest, 
beauty,  or  reality.  Fraternity,  which  ia 
56 


THE  NOVELS 


very  nearly  his  masterpiece,  almost  reaches 
technical  perfection,  while  The  Island 
Pharisees — which  is  as  near  as  he  can  go 
to  writing  a  thoroughly  bad  novel — is  also 
the  most  faultily  constructed. 

The  Island  Pharisees  shows  perhaps  more 
than  any  of  the  novels  the  raw  edges  of  his 
art.  He  is  burning  with  indignation  at  the 
self- righteousness  of  the  British  middle 
classes,  and  his  power  as  a  novelist  is  as  yet 
too  undeveloped  to  cope  with  his  zeal  as  a 
reformer.  He  lacks  too  that  subtlety  of 
warfare  which  in  the  plays  and  later  novels 
makes  his  propaganda  so  effective  and  at 
the  same  time  is  one  of  his  truest  safeguards 
as  an  artist — the  exposure  of  a  cause  out 
of  the  mouth  of  its  own  champions.  He 
attacks  crudely — through  a  series  of  events 
which  are  not  always  above  the  suspicion  of 
pre- arrangement,  through  dialogue  which 
is  often  manoeuvred  and  artificial.  None 
of  his  characters,  except  Ferrand,  the  vaga- 
bond, has  much  of  the  breath  of  hfe,  and 
over  the  whole  hangs  a  fog  of  bitterness 
57 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


which  is  scarcely  ever  dispelled  by  those 
illuminating  phrases  and  flashes  of  insight 
into  his  opponents'  cause,  which  elsewhere 
make  him  so  appeahng. 

There  is  little  doubt  that  if  The  Island 
Pharisees  were  Galsworthy's  average  instead 
of  his  low- water  mark,  his  position  as  a 
novehst  would  be  negligible.  But  his  other 
novels,  without  exception,  are  so  superior 
in  technique,  in  human  interest,  in  beauty, 
and  in  force,  that  we  cannot  consider  The 
Island  Pharisees  as  anything  but  the  first 
uncertain  step  of  one  who  is  feeling  his  way. 
In  The  Man  of  Property  we  have  the  same 
idea — the  satire  of  a  class — but  it  is  brought 
before  us  so  differently  that  comparison  is 
impossible. 

The  Forsjrte  family  are  representatives 
of  that  section  of  the  middle  class  whose 
chief  aim  is  Possession.  The  Forsytes 
possess  many  things — they  possess  money, 
they  possess  artistic  treasures,  houses, 
wives,  and  children,  they  even  possess 
talents ;  but  with  them  the  verb  "  I  have  "  is 
58 


THE  NOVELS 


of  more  importance  than  its  object.  "  This 
interests  me,  not  in  itself,  but  because  it  is 
mine" — is  their  motto.  In  many  ways 
they  are  less  heartless,  less  hypocritical 
than  the  country  Pharisees ;  the  conscious- 
ness of  possession  brings  a  certain  stamina, 
a  worth  and  solidarity,  which  compel  admira- 
tion. Also  Galsworthy  has  been  far  more 
tolerant  in  their  portrayal.  The  Forsytes 
are  human,  they  are  not  like  the  Dennants ; 
they  are  undoubtedly  types,  even  their 
differentiations  are  typical,  but  they  are 
types  of  flesh  and  blood,  not  merely  of  points 
of  view.  There  is  something  in  the  group- 
ing of  them  too  which  is  impressive.  These 
six  old  brothers  whose  god  is  property  have 
a  certain  greatness ;  though  they  and  their 
lust  of  possession  are  satirised  in  many 
telling  episodes,  we  feel  that  nevertheless 
the  nation  would  do  badly  without  them. 

The    chief   representative    of    Forsytism 

belongs,   however,   to  one  of  the  younger 

branches  of  the  family.      Soames  Forsjrte 

is  essentially  the  Man  of  Property,  because 

59 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


we  see  the  lust  of  possession  working  in  him 
not  only  through  the  splendid  house  he  is 
building,  but  through  his  wife  Irene.  It  is 
in  his  attitude  towards  Irene  that  he  declares 
himself  most  definitely  the  Man  of  Property. 
He  is  not  unkind  to  her,  he  is  not  untrue  to 
her,  but  she  is  his  in  the  sense  that  the  Robin 
Hill  house  is  his,  and  it  is  this  reahsation 
which  fills  her  with  bitterness  and  loathing, 
Irene  belongs  to  the  contrasting  group 
which  Galsworthy  uses  in  his  novels  as  in 
his  plays.  She  and  her  lover  Bosinney 
stand  for  all  that  is  antagonistic  to  the 
Forsytes.  In  many  ways  Irene  is  one  of 
Galsworthy's  most  vivid  creations.  She  is 
a  type  we  meet  elsewhere  in  the  novels,  yet 
she  has  about  her  certain  elements  of  origin- 
ahty.  Something  individual  creeps  into 
the  magnetic  softness,  the  passion- haunted 
quietness,  which  are  characteristic  of  so 
many  Galsworthy  women.  She  is  human, 
and  she  is  in  revolt — but  not  strenuously  or 
effectively.  Galsworthy  has  httle  sympathy 
for  th^  strong  successful  woman,  who  either 
60 


THE  NOVELS 


defeats  circumstances  or  handles  them  with 
capable  cunning.  In  his  delineation  of 
June  Forsyte,  who  belongs  to  this  class,  he 
is  sometimes  reluctantly  admiring,  but  never 
sympathetic. 

June  Forsyte,  with  her  decided  chin  and 
managing  ways,  is  the  antithesis  of  Irene, 
strong  only  in  her  softness.  It  is  easy  to 
understand  how  this  very  contrast  would 
have  switched  Bosinney's  love  from  one  to 
the  other,  but  the  change  itself  is  not  very 
convincingly  brought  about.  Perhaps  this 
is  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  Bosinney 
himself  is  not  a  success.  He  is  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  contrast  group ;  property 
to  him  is  nothing,  he  spends  his  time  and 
talent — in  the  end  risking  his  career — on 
the  house  which  is  Soames  Forsyte's.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  is  his  sudden  knowledge 
that  another  also  owns  the  woman  of  whom 
he  had  thought  himself  the  sole  possessor 
that  drives  him  to  madness  and  suicide. 
Property  makes  its  appeal  even  to  him. 

There  is  throughout  the  book  a  depth  of 
61 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


gloom,  as  if  the  shadows  of  great  possessions 
lay  over  it.  None  of  the  characters  is  really 
attractive,  except,  perhaps,  old  Jolyon 
Forsyte ;  there  is  something  subtly  caddish 
about  them  all,  and  the  author's  lack  of 
sympathy  sours  the  whole.  Studied  in  the 
light  especially  of  his  novels,  it  is  a  strange 
error  to  call  Galsworthy  "  detached."  The 
side  he  takes  is  always  apparent,  in  spite  of 
what  he  says  on  the  other,  and  liis  lack  of 
sympathy  with  the  human  representatives 
of  the  opposite  point  of  view  is  often  so  great 
as  to  put  them  out  of  drawing.  Fine  as 
the  Forsytes  are,  they  would  have  been  much 
finer  if  the  author  had  penetrated  in  some 
degree  beneath  their  outer  skin,  shown 
sympathy  with  the  springs  of  their  nature 
as  well  as  understanding  of  their  mental 
attitude.  His  sympathies  in  The  Man  of 
Property  are  undoubtedly  with  Irene  Forsyte 
and  with  Bosinney — though  it  would  seem 
that  this  character  sometimes  repelled  and 
baffled  even  his  creator. 

On  the  whole  there  is  something  haunting 
62 


THE  NOVELS 


about  the  book — something  in  the  gloom  of 
its  ending  which  makes  us  shudder  after  it 
is  closed.  Property  triumphs.  Bosinney  is 
beaten  and  killed  by  the  Man  of  Property, 
and  Irene  is  brought  back  to  the  slavery 
from  which  she  revolted. 

"  Huddled  in  her  grey  fur  against  the 
sofa- cushions,  she  had  a  strange  resemblance 
to  a  captive  owl,  bunched  in  its  soft  feathers 
against  the  wires  of  a  cage.  The  supple 
erectness  of  her  figure  was  gone,  as  though 
she  had  been  broken  by  cruel  exercise ;  as 
though  there  were  no  longer  any  reason 
for  being  beautiful,  and  supple,  and  erect." 

Thus  the  curtain  rings  down  on  Irene 
Forsyte,  crushed  under  the  heel  of 
prosperity,  robbed  of  her  love  by  a  sudden 
awakening  of  the  sense  of  property  in  the 
heart  of  the  man  she  had  thought  clean 
of  it.  .  .  . 

The  Country  House  also  deals  with  a  class, 
and  it  is  the  country  equivalent  of  the 
Forsytes.  The  Pendyces  are  big  country 
63 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


proprietors,  but  the  property  is  to  them  a 
good  deal  more  than  material  possession. 
It  is  their  Position  in  the  county  that  they 
think  of,  their  Standing;  Dignity  is  with 
them  almost  as  important  as  Land,  and  more 
important  than  Money.  Also  they  are  not 
quite  so  much  a  type  as  the  Forsytes — in 
certain  broad  characteristics  they  may  be 
found  in  dozens  of  country  manors,  but  in 
others  they  are  unique.  They  do  everything 
with  the  greatest  amount  of  unnecessary 
trouble  to  themselves  and  other  people. 
"  Pendyce,"  says  Paramor  to  Vigil,  when 
discussing  the  threatened  divorce,  "he'd 
give  his  eyes  for  the  case  not  to  come  on, 
but  you'll  see  he'll  rub  everything  up  the 
wrong  way,  and  it'll  be  a  miracle  if  we 
succeed.     That's  '  Pendycitis'  !  " 

Even  George,  who  in  some  ways  breaks 
free  from  the  family  tradition,  is  afflicted 
by  it.  It  is  largely  owing  to  Pendycitis 
that  he  loses  Helen  Bellew.  He  tires  her 
with  that  dogged  quahty  of  his,  which  spares 
neither  himself  nor  her,  but  sends  him 
64 


THE  NOVELS 


plodding  and  muddling  on  in  the  face  of 
impossible  circumstances.  He  cannot  yield, 
and  he  is  not  really  strong — he  is  a  Pendyce ; 
and  it  is  with  luxurious  relief  that  she  finds 
herself  free  of  him  at  last. 

Helen  Bellew  is  only  lightly  sketched 
in,  her  presence  is  almost  always  merely 
physical.  She  has  many  of  the  outward 
essentials  of  the  Galsworthy  heroine,  that 
particular  dower  of  ripe,  seductive,  yet 
delicate,  beauty  which  we  find  in  Irene 
Forsyte,  Audrey  Noel,  and  Ohve  Cramier. 
But  she  is  heartless — which  those  others  are 
not — and  hence  we  seem  to  find  a  certain 
reluctance  on  the  author's  part  to  probe  into 
her.  What  is  heartless  cannot  be  truly 
beautiful,  according  to  his  creed,  and  he 
wants  us  to  reahse  how  beautiful  Helen 
Bellew  was,  so  that  she  became  a  force,  a 
moulding- stamp,  to  the  hard,  unimpression- 
able George  Pendyce. 

The  real  heroine  of  The  Country  House  is 
George's  mother,  Margery  Pendyce,  and  she 
is,  practically  without  exception,  the  most 
B  65 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


charming  character  in  Galsworthy's  novels. 
She  is  the  Mother — not  the  Mother  in  her 
elemental  form,  but  the  Mother  as  civihsa- 
tion  and  education  and  pain  have  made 
her ;  not  very  different  from  the  primitive 
type,  perhaps,  but  dainty  with  a  score  of 
sweet  refinements.  Quieted  by  her  long 
subjection  in  the  school  of  Pendyce,  she  yet 
has  the  invincible  courage  of  gentleness; 
accustomed  for  years  to  yield  where  her  own 
comfort  and  happiness  only  are  concerned, 
she  takes  an  impregnable  stand  at  last  when 
her  children's  welfare  is  at  stake.  There  is 
something  heroic  in  this  gentle,  soft- gowned, 
lavender- scented  figure,  moving  so  peace- 
fully among  her  roses,  caring  so  dutifully  for 
her  household  and  her  husband,  and  then 
suddenly  putting  them  all  from  her,  to  take 
her  place  beside  her  outcast  son. 

"  I  have  gone  up  to  London  to  be  with 
George"  (she  writes  simply  to  Pendyce), 
"  you  will  remember  what  I  said  last  night. 
Perhaps  you  did  not  quite  realise  that  I 
meant  it.  Take  care  of  poor  old  Boy,  and 
66 


THE  NOVELS 


don't  let  them  give  him  too  much  meat  this 
hot  weather.  Jackman  knows  better  than 
Elhs  how  to  manage  the  roses.  Please  do 
not  worry  about  me.  Good-bye,  dear 
Horace ;    I  am  sorry  if  I  grieve  you." 

Margery  Pendyce  is  the  chief  of  the  con- 
trast group  in  this  novel;  with  her  is 
Gregory  Vigil,  the  idealist,  who  looks  at  the 
sky  when  it  would  be  better  if  he  looked  at 
the  street  and  saw  where  he  was  going. 
Unselfishness,  quietness,  and  ideahsm  are 
the  contrasts  of  Pendycitis.  The  Reverend 
Hussell  Barter,  who  is  a  kind  of  clerical 
Pendyce,  is  one  of  Galsworthy's  most  success- 
ful attempts  at  humour.  He  is  drawn  with 
many  a  memorable  satiric  flick,  and  doubt- 
less this  is  a  reason  why  he  succeeds,  for 
Galsworthy's  humour  without  irony  is  apt 
to  be  trivial. 

Another  striking  character  is  the  Spaniel 
John — here  Galsworthy  has  succeeded  in 
giving  a  dog  a  very  definite  personahty. 
John  is  not  only  a  dog,  he  is  a  spaniel — the 
distinct  psychology  of  the  spaniel  works  in 
67 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


him,  and  we  could  never  think  of  him  as  a 
terrier  or  a  coUie.  Indeed  the  author  has 
taken  as  much  trouble  over  the  Spaniel 
John  as  over  any  character  in  the  book,  and 
been  as  successful. 


68 


THE  NOVELS 
II 

ONE  can  say  without  mucli  fear  of 
contradiction  that  after  The  Man 
of  Proferty  the  finest  of  Gals- 
worthy's novels  is  Fraternity.  Indeed  it 
comes  as  near  being  a  perfect  work  of 
art  as  any  novel  ever  written.  There 
have  been  many  novels  with  a  stronger 
appeal,  a  wider  comprehension,  a  greater 
depth  and  force,  but  few  of  which  it  can 
be  said  that  they  fulfil  more  completely  the 
canons  of  novel- writing.  And  this  is  to  be 
understood  not  only  of  the  letter  but  of  the 
spirit — Fraternity  is  no  mere  triumph  of 
technique,  it  is  a  moving,  human  and  beauti- 
ful story,  about  people  who  are  real,  if 
drawn  in  pale  colours,  and  situations  which 
are  Life,  in  spite  of  their  elusiveness. 

In  its  perfection  of  balance,  Fraternity 
69 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


reminds  one  of  the  plays.  There  is  a  central 
situation,  flanked  by  two  contrasting  groups. 
It  is  not  of  mere  industrial  or  moral  signi- 
ficance, nor  is  it  the  satirisation  of  any 
particular  class ;  it  is  a  problem  which  has 
always  occupied  human  minds,  and  will  do 
so  till  the  end  of  time — the  problem  of  the 
rich  and  the  poor.  It  is  embodied  in  old 
Mr  Stone,  with  his  great  unfinished — and, 
we  suspect,  ever  to  be  unfinished — work  on 
Brotherhood.  "  Each  one  of  us  has  a  shadow 
in  those  places — in  those  streets."  Mr 
Stone  is  one  of  Galsworthy's  finest  achieve- 
ments. In  him  the  author  shows  what  few 
have  even  attempted  to  show,  the  infinite 
pathos  of  moral  greatness.  There  is  no 
denying  the  greatness  of  Mr  Stone,  in  spite 
of  his  mental  kink,  and  his  pathos  is  as 
evident.  He  is  alone,  it  is  his  own  doing ; 
he  cannot,  if  he  would,  bind  himself  up  with 
others.  He  writes  of  Fraternity,  but  in 
life  he  never  touches  a  brother's  hand — he 
does  nothing  to  unite  those  two  brothers 
whose  embrace  he  writes  of,  and  his  own 
70 


THE  NOVELS 


life  is  equally  remote  from  either.  They 
come  near  him,  they  put  out  tentative, 
appealing  hands — and  with  a  wistful  sigh 
he  turns  to  his  book. 

The  Classes  are  represented  by  the  two 
Dallison  families,  the  Masses  by  the  Hughes, 
Creed,  and  the  little  model.  It  is  remarkable 
how  tightly  the  whole  fabric  is  drawn 
together — Hilary  and  Stephen  Dallison  have 
married  two  sisters,  Bianca  and  Cecilia,  and 
their  Shadows  live  together  under  the  same 
roof.  We  know  what  would  be,  with  an 
average  novelist,  the  result  of  such  an  effort 
at  concentration,  but  nothing  could  be 
more  natural,  more  inevitable,  than  the 
knitting  up  of  these  groups. 

The  little  model  is  not  a  common  Gals- 
worthy type ;  in  fact,  she  stands  almost 
alone  in  his  novels.  Quiet  and  soft  she  un- 
doubtedly is,  like  most  of  his  women,  but 
the  meek  vulgarity  of  her  little  mind  is  some- 
thing new.  She  is  drawn  with  a  wonderful 
sympathy,  as  indeed  are  all  the  characters 
in  the  book ;  for  in  Fraternity,  Galsworthy 
71 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


does  not  seem  to  have  been  so  mucli  struck 
by  the  irony  of  his  theme  as  by  its  pathos. 
There  is  one  beautiful  account  of  her,  leav- 
ing Hilary's  house,  which  sheds  a  tender 
light  like  a  spring  sunset  over  her  figure, 
making  it  at  once  terribly  pathetic  and 
terribly  young. 

"  She  kept  turning  her  face  back  as  she 
went  down  the  path,  as  though  to  show  her 
gratitude.  And  presently,  looking  up  from 
his  manuscript,  he  saw  her  face  still  at 
the  railings,  peering  through  a  lilac  bush. 
Suddenly  she  sldpped,  like  a  child  let  out 
of  school.  Hilary  got  up,  perturbed.  The 
sight  of  that  skipping  was  like  the  rays  of  a 
lantern  turned  on  the  dark  street  of  another 
human  being's  hfe.  It  revealed,  as  in  a 
flash,  the  loneliness  of  this  child,  without 
money  and  without  friends,  in  the  midst  of 
this  great  town." 

The  Hughes  group  is  in  its  units  to  be 

found  in  many  of  Galsworthy's  works :   the 

buUjang  husband,  gross,  selfish,  an  animal — 

but  an  animal  broken — the  meek  wife  who 

72 


THE  NOVELS 


complains  and  nags,  but  has  at  tlie  bottom 
of  her  heart  an  unreasoning  dog-hke  quality 
which  will  let  her  make  no  effective  efforts 
for  freedom;  the  poor  old  man,  fallen  on 
e\al  days,  yet  with  a  philosophy,  and  a  self- 
respect  which  is  almost  pride.  Galsworthy 
never  sees  the  poor  and  outcast  in  an  aureole 
of  false  idealism.  If  he  sadly  confesses  that 
the  classes  do  not  know  how  to  help  the 
masses,  he  also  confesses  that  the  masses 
do  not  know  how  to  help  themselves.  If 
the  Dallisons  are  timid  and  inefficient, 
Hughes  is  an  undeserving  brute,  and  Mrs 
Hughes  a  scold  who  is  largely  responsible 
for  her  own  ills.  The  little  model  is  forlorn, 
but  she  is  also  designing.  The  result  is  that 
an  atmosphere  of  deep  depression  hangs  over 
Fraternity.  One  might  say  that  its  moral 
was  "  For  rich  is  rich  and  poor  is  poor,  and 
never  the  twain  shall  meet " — except  in  the 
unfinished  book  of  a  cranky  ideahst. 

"  Like  fhes  caught  among  the  impalpable 
and  smoky  threads  of   cobwebs,   so   men 
73 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


struggle  in  the  webs  of  their  own  natures, 
giving  here  a  start,  there  a  pitiful  small 
jerldng,  long  sustained,  and  falling  into 
stillness.  Enmeshed  they  were  born,  en- 
meshed they  die,  fighting  according  to  their 
strength  to  the  end ;  to  fight  in  the  hope  of 
freedom,  their  joy;  to  die,  not  knowing 
they  are  beaten,  their  reward." 

The  Patrician  is  scarcely  equal  to  Frater- 
nity. In  it  the  bitterness,  which  seemed  to 
have  slumbered  for  a  while,  awakes,  and 
helps  to  distort  the  picture.  Also  in  no 
novel,  I  think,  is  more  obvious  Galsworthy's 
lack  of  sympathy  with  certain  of  his  char- 
acters. The  book  suffers  in  having  for  its 
central  figure  a  man  whom  the  author  ad- 
mires but  does  not  really  understand.  Lord 
Miltoun  is  a  noble  conception,  but  Galsworthy 
does  not  get  to  the  bottom  of  his  struggle. 
One  feels  all  the  way  through  that  he  ad- 
mires him,  but  cannot  sympathise  with  him, 
and  the  result  is  that  the  real  grounds  of 
Miltoun' s  actions  are  seldom  displayed. 
We  never  penetrate  beneath  the  surface  of 
74 


THE  NOVELS 


this  character,  whose  inner  mind  we  never- 
theless would  know  rather  than  many 
whose  workings  are  shown  us. 

There  is  also  a  group,  the  Valleys  group, 
whom  Galsworthy  is  passionately  wanting 
to  treat  fairly,  but  for  whom  he  cannot  con- 
ceal a  bitterness  not  unflavoured  with  con- 
tempt. Lord  Valleys,  his  wife,  his  sons,  his 
daughters,  are  drawn  with  a  painstaking 
effort  to  hide  his  real  feehng  towards  them, 
but  the  effort  often  breaks  down;  even 
Barbara,  splendid  and  brave,  has  a  repelling 
hardness  in  which  stick  one  or  two  ironic 
arrows  of  her  creator.  Courtier,  who  re- 
presents the  Other  Point  of  View,  is  some- 
times rather  vaguely  drawn,  and  suffers 
in  the  opposite  way  to  Miltoun,  for  Gals- 
worthy, while  apparently  sympathising  with 
his  attitude,  does  not  seem  to  have  the  same 
admiration  for  his  character. 

The  only  person  in  the  book  who  is  both 

admired  and  understood  is  Mrs  Noel.     Here 

we  have  a  very  appeahng  figure,  tragic  yet 

quiet,  courageous  yet  soft,  made  for  love, 

75 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


vibrant  with  passion,  full  of  an  infinite 
delicacy  and  self-respect.  Self-respect  is 
an  unfailing  characteristic  of  Galsworthy's 
good  women ;  he  has  no  sympathy  with  the 
woman  who  in  times  of  stress  loses  her 
personal  dignity,  and  forgets  all  those  little 
trivial  refinements  of  body  which  are  part 
of  her  greatness.  Audrey  Noel  "  incorrig- 
ibly loved  to  look  as  charming  as  she  could ; 
and  even  if  no  one  were  going  to  see  her,  she 
never  felt  that  she  looked  charming  enough." 
He  reahses  that  for  a  woman  who  respects 
herself  it  is  not  enough  to  be  merely  clean 
and  tidy,  she  must  be  as  beautiful  as  circum- 
stances will  allow-^it  is  not  vanity  but  her 
dignity  which  demands  it.  Mrs  Noel  ap- 
peals because  her  courage  is  so  infinite,  and 
because  it  is  so  essentially  a  woman' s  courage, 
a  thing  of  gentleness  and  soft  endurance, 
not  of  the  stiff  but  of  the  smihng  hp. 

There  is  a  certain  unsatisfactoriness  in 

the  tragedy  of  her  relations  with  Miltoun. 

He  falls  from  his  ideal,  but  only  half-way, 

80  to  speak — the  rest  of  his  difficulty  is 

76 


THE  NOVELS 


solved  by  her  abnegation.  One  is  given 
the  impression,  in  spite  of  much  talking 
between  the  characters,  that  the  vital  heart 
of  the  matter  has  never  been  reached.  "  If 
the  lark's  song  means  nothing — if  that  sky 
is  a  morass  of  our  invention — if  we  are 
pettily  creeping  on,  furthering  nothing — 
persuade  me  of  it,  and  I'll  bless  you."  That 
desperate  cry  of  Miltoun  seems  to  give 
more  of  the  essence  of  his  struggle  than  any 
arguments  about  Religion  and  Authority. 
One  feels  that  both  were  only  names  on 
lips — it  was  not  merely  a  respect  for 
authority  that  made  Miltoun  first  deny  him- 
self Audrey,  and  then  when  he  had  taken 
her,  beheve  himself  bound  to  throw  aside 
his  pubhc  life.  The  appeal  of  Authority  is 
not  made  convincing  enough,  the  appeal  to 
Religion  not  spiritual  enough,  for  a  man  of 
Miltoun' s  t3rpe — one  sees  him  acting,  gener- 
ally at  least,  according  to  the  dead  letter 
of  both ;  one  knows  there  must  have  been 
a  quickening  spirit  behind  to  drive  such  a 
man,  but  one  is  not  shown  it. 
77 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


The  Dark  Flower  is  in  some  ways  a 
departure  from  his  usual  methods.  It 
lacks  the  central  problem,  with  its  balanced 
and  contrasted  groups.  It  is  not  a  study 
of  a  situation  nor  of  a  class ;  it  is  a  study 
of  passion.  There  has  always  been  plenty  of 
passion  in  Galsworthy's  books;  he  is  not 
a  cold  writer,  and  though  his  central  idea 
is  often  social  or  intellectual,  in  his  treat- 
ment of  it  he  never  loses  sight  of  the  fact 
that  human  emotions  are  stronger  than 
human  intellects,  and  play  a  more  im- 
portant part  in  all  situations,  no  matter 
how  purely  technical  and  general  these  may 
appear.  But  in  The  Dark  Flowery  passion  is 
not  an  incident  or  a  moulding  force,  it  is 
the  central  theme.  We  are  shown  its  growth 
in  three  different  stages — its  first  kindling 
in  the  heart  of  a  boy,  its  consummation  in 
the  young  man  and  woman,  its  last  flicker 
in  the  man  who  sees  old  age  approaching 
and  to  whom  youth  calls. 

To  carry  out  his  idea  Galsworthy  is  forced 
to  put  aside  much  of  that  compactness  which 
78 


THE  NOVELS 


is  so  effective  in  his  other  novels.  Indeed 
The  Dark  Flower  is  really  three  separate 
stories,  of  which  the  hero,  Mark  Lennan,  is 
the  connecting  link.  A  really  fine  character 
might  have  held  these  three  episodes  to- 
gether, but  Lennan  is  vaguely  drawn.  He 
is  most  convincing  as  boy  and  middle-aged 
man ;  in  the  central  part  he  is  swamped  in 
the  vehemence  of  his  own  love.  Indeed 
the  passion  of  Lennan  and  Olive  Cramier 
is  far  the  greatest  thing  about  them — taken 
apart  from  it  they  are  both  a  little  colourless. 
Ohve  is  much  less  hfe-hke  than  Audrey  Noel, 
Irene  Forsyte,  and  others  of  her  kind ;  she 
is  vague  and  shadowy  beside  the  heroines  of 
the  two  other  episodes,  Anne  Stormer  and 
Nell  Dromore. 

These  women  are  in  many  ways  the 
best-drawn  characters  in  the  book.  Anne 
Stormer,  caught  on  the  fringe  of  middle  age 
by  the  gust  of  her  passion  for  a  boy  of 
eighteen,  swept  by  it,  rocked  by  it,  but  con- 
scious all  the  time  of  its  hopelessness  with 
regard  to  herself,  its  cruelty  with  regard  to 
79 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


him,  in  the  end  gives  him  up  to  the  little 
girl  of  his  own  age,  with  whom  he  chmbs 
trees,  and  in  whose  presence  he  forgets  the 
dark  flower  whose  scent  in  her  bosom  had 
given  him  his  first  staggering  draught  of  Hfe. 
She  is  a  character  fine  through  her  pathos, 
through  the  inevitableness  of  her  renuncia- 
tion, which  is  not  made  from  any  high 
spirit  of  courage  or  self-sacrifice,  but  simply 
because  she  must. 

Very  different  is  Nell  Dromore,  who  sends 
the  mocking  cry  of  youth  after  Lennan  when, 
having  passed  through  the  storm  of  his  love 
for  OUve  Cramier,  and  married  his  boyhood's 
playfellow,  Sylvia  Doone,  he  sees  old  age 
creeping  towards  him,  passionless  and  ad- 
ventureless.  She  is  an  extraordinary  study 
of  mingled  abandonment  and  innocence. 
She  leads  him  on  by  methods  which  would 
not  disgrace  a  courtesan  if  they  had  not 
about  them  all  the  delicious  shamelessness 
of  a  child.  In  the  end  he  has  the  strength 
to  wrench  himself  from  her,  knowing  that 
she  brings  him  but  a  false  hope,  for  which  his 
80 


THE  NOVELS 


wife's  broken  heart  must  pay.  Sylvia, 
though  winning  and  sweet  in  the  first  episode, 
is  rather  shadowy  here,  where  she  has  such 
an  important  part.  No  doubt  her  in- 
effectiveness is  to  a  certain  extent  dehberate, 
but  for  all  that  it  should  not  be  unreal,  or 
we  lose  sight  of  it  as  a  force  in  Lennan's 
struggle. 

On  the  whole  it  must  be  said  that  Gals- 
worthy is  at  his  best  when  most  character- 
istic, and  here,  where  he  turns  to  the  methods 
of  the  more  ordinary  novehst,  he  loses  some 
of  his  strength.  There  are,  however,  some 
impressive  scenes  in  the  book,  and  he  has 
again  shown  his  peculiar  successfulness  in 
dealing  with  youth  and  young  love.  There 
are  dehghtful  pictures  of  the  boy  Mark,  in 
which  his  growing,  half- understood  infatua- 
tion is  never  allowed  to  drown  the  frankness 
of  his  youth ;  and  the  scenes  between  him 
and  Sylvia  remind  us  of  similar  scenes  in  Joy, 

In  The  Freelands,  Galsworthy  reverts 
to  the  more  characteristic  mood;  indeed 
the  book  is  reminiscent — in  a  stimulating, 
F  81 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


legitimate  way.  Its  structure  reminds  one 
of  The  Man  of  Property,  and  its  environment 
of  The  Country  House.  As  in  the  first  of 
these  the  web  was  spun  over  the  framework 
of  the  six  brothers  Forsyte,  so  here  we  have 
the  four  brothers  Freeland  to  serve  as  pegs 
— and  they  Uve  in  circumstances  that  recall 
the  Pendyces  and  their  problems.  Not  that 
they  are  all  four  country  people — Felix  is  a 
successful  author  and  lives  at  Hampstead, 
and  John  is  in  the  Home  Office;  but  the 
family  meets  at  Becket,  where  Stanley  who 
has  made  a  fortune  by  exporting  ploughs, 
has  an  estate,  and  Tod,  the  eccentric  and 
revolutionary,  lives  the  simple  life,  freehold. 

Then  there  is  the  old  mother,  one  of  those 
tender,  sturdy,  odd  patricians  whom  the 
author  can  draw  so  clearly,  and  there  is  the 
young  genereration  as  represented  by  Nedda, 
Felix's  inquiring  daughter,  and  Tod's 
anarchistic  Derek  and  Sheila — also  the 
wives  of  three  Freelands,  especially  Tod's 
Kirsteen. 

These  characters  are  not  considered  so 
82 


THE  NOVELS 


much  in  relation  to  each  other  as  in  relation 
to  the  central  problem,  which  is  The  Land — 
and  The  Land  with  Galsworthy  is,  of  course, 
not  the  good  earth  but  the  slaves  that  toil 
on  it.  He  studies  the  labouring  man  in 
connection  with  his  employers,  the  petty 
tyrannies  of  Manor,  Parsonage,  and  Farm. 
Bob  Tryst  is  evicted  because  his  marriage 
with  his  deceased  wife's  sister  displeases  the 
Squiress,  Lady  Malloring,  and  the  poor 
Gaunts  are  hounded  from  pillar  to  post 
because  the  daughter  has  "  got  into  trouble." 
Galsworthy  pillories  Feudalism,  which  he 
sees  rampant  over  Enghsh  rusticity,  and 
parts  of  The  Freelands  read  like  a  Gladstone 
League  pamphlet. 

However,  to  any  one  who  loathes  "the 
People,"  whether  of  fields  or  streets,  the  cen- 
tral interest  of  The  Freelands  is  Galsworthy's 
study  of  a  modern  English  familj.  He  is 
rather  fond  of  this  especial  study — we  have 
it  in  The  Man  of  Pwperty,  The  Country 
House,  and  The  Patrician  ;  we  see  it  hovering 
near  Fraternity.  The  combinations  and 
83 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


permutations  of  blood  relationship  seem  to 
interest  him  enormously — the  modern  push 
and  individuahsm,  half  attacking,  half  com- 
bining with  old-fashioned  ideas  of  kinship 
and  unity.  He  shows  how  the  family  Idea 
survives,  in  spite  of  actual  disruptions,  and 
can  outlive  even  an  utter  lack  of  common 
life,  interest,  or  sympathy — so  that  the  un- 
loved brother  must  come  somehow  before 
the  loved  stranger,  simply  because  he  is 
One  of  the  Family.  It  is  probably  a  lurking 
of  the  primitive  clan  instinct,  and  one  would 
like  to  see  it  treated  of  even  more  thoroughly 
than  Galsworthy  has  done.  It  is  interesting 
to  watch  him  with  these  Freelands,  linked 
by  their  family  tie,  and  also,  in  this  case,  by 
the  wise,  kindly,  foolish  old  mother  of  them 
all — who  is,  however.  Tod's  in  particular. 

In  other  matters  The  Freelands  makes  its 
predecessor,  The  Dark  Flower,  stand  out 
even  more  as  an  exception  or  parenthesis. 
In  his  latest  novel  we  have  all  his  early, 
usual  traits:  all  his  old  defects  of  too 
general  a  characterisation,  too  careful  a 
84 


THE  NOVELS 


balance,  too  deliberate  a  sacrifice  of  the 
artist  to  the  moralist,  but  at  the  same  time 
the  virtues  of  these  defects — restraint,  craft, 
and  purpose,  and,  besides,  those  intrinsic 
quaHties  which  are  the  real  building-stuS 
of  his  work. 

The  characters  of  these  four  brothers, 
their  wives  and  children  and  associates,  are 
drawn  with  a  firm  touch  hghtened  by  much 
satire  of  the  kinder  sort.  There  is  that  sense 
and  grasp  of  beauty  which  we  find  so  in- 
evitably in  Galsworthy's  treatment  of  even 
the  stufiiest  theme.  We  have,  too,  a  sense 
of  aloofness  which,  if  it  is  sometimes  irritat- 
ing, is  occasionally  majestic,  and  Ht  by 
warm,  sudden  flashes  of  penetration  into 
characters  one  would  have  thought,  by  other 
signs,  to  be  beyond  his  sphere  of  understand- 
ing. The  book  may  not  be  so  good  as 
Fraternity,  it  is  certainly  not  so  great  as 
The  Man  of  Property,  but  it  is,  nevertheless, 
among  the  best  he  has  given  us,  which  is 
encouraging,  since  it  is,  though  only  tempor- 
arily, one  hopes,  the  last. 
85 


THE  SKETCHES 

TTT'ILLA  RUBEIN  and  four  short 
1/  stories  under  the  title  of  A  Man 
of  Devon  were  published  anony- 
mously. All  early  efforts,  they  are  not  on  a 
line  with  Galsworthy's  later  work,  but  they 
have  about  them  a  certain  beauty  and  in- 
dividuahty  which  makes  them  worth  con- 
sidering. Perhaps  their  chief  characteristic 
is  dehcacy :  they  are  water-colours,  in  many 
ways  exquisitely  conceived  and  shaded,  but 
perhaps  a  trifle  pale  and  washed  out,  a  trifle 
— it  must  be  owned — uninteresting. 

Villa  Ruhein,  describing  with  much  sensi- 
tive charm  the  Hfe  of  a  haK- Austrian  house- 
hold, is  full  of  tenderness,  but  lacking  some- 
how in  grip.  The  characters  are  more 
attractive  than  most  of  Galsworthy's — in 
fact,  in  no  work  of  his  do  we  meet  such  a 
uniformly  charming  group  of  people.  They 
86 


THE  SKETCHES 


are  sketched,  even  the  less  pleasing,  with  an 
entire  absence  of  bitterness,  and  the  heroine. 
Christian,  and  her  little  half- German  sister 
are  delightful  in  their  freshness  and  grave 
sweetness.  Miss  Naylor  and  old  Nic  Treffry 
are  also  drawn  with  a  loving  and  convincing 
hand.  The  book  seems  to  have  been  written 
in  a  mellow  mood  which  passed  with  it. 
Yet  we  pay  for  any  absence  of  bitterness, 
propaganda  or  pessimism,  by  a  correspond- 
ing lack  of  force.  It  must  be  confessed  that 
Galsworthy  is  most  effective  when  he  is 
most  gloomy,  most  penetrating  when  he 
is  most  bitter,  most  humorous  when  he 
is  most  satirical. 

The  short  stories  call  for  no  special  com- 
ment except  The  Salvation  of  a  Forsyte,  where 
we  meet  for  the  first  time  S within  Forsyte, 
later  to  figure  in  The  Man  of  Proferty.  We 
are  introduced  to  an  early  adventure  of  his, 
which  is  treated  with  some  technical  skill 
and  an  impressive  irony.  The  tale  has 
grip,  and  is  not  far  ofi  French  excellence 
of  craft.  The  other  stories  are  too  long  for 
87 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


their  themes,  which,  if  not  actually  thin  in 
themselves,  are  dragged  out  in  the  telHng. 

Of  very  different  stuff  are  the  four 
volumes  of  sketches — A  Commentary,  A 
Motley,  The  Inn  of  Tranquillity ,  and  The 
Little  Man.  In  these,  except,  perhaps,  in 
the  last,  we  have  some  of  Galsworthy's  best 
work,  much  of  it  equal,  in  its  different  way, 
to  the  finest  of  the  plays  and  novels. 

A  Commentary  deals  chiefly  with  the  life 
of  the  very  poor,  showing  the  intimacy  of 
the  author's  knowledge,  and  the  depths  of 
his  sympathy.  Some  of  the  sketches  are 
indictments  of  the  social  order  which  favours 
those  who  have  money  and  tramples  those 
who  have  none.  Justice,  for  instance,  is  a 
fresh  exposure  of  the  oft- exposed  inequahty 
of  the  divorce  laws  where  rich  and  poor  are 
concerned.  A  Mother  is  a  piteous  revelation 
of  those  depths  of  horror  and  humihation 
which  form  the  daily  life  of  many.  Con- 
tinually, in  the  plays  and  in  the  novels, 
Galsworthy  reveals  the  utter  brutishness  of 
some  of  these  submerged  ones.  He  never 
88 


THE   SKETCHES 


attempts  to  enforce  his  social  ethics  by 
glorification  of  those  he  champions.  Such 
men  as  Hughes,  in  Fraternity,  or  the  husband, 
in^  Mother,  are  absolutely  of  the  lowest  stuff 
and,  it  would  seem,  unworthy  of  a  hand  to 
help  them  out  of  the  mud  in  which  they  roll. 
But  here  lies  the  subtlety  of  the  reproach — 
it  is  the  social  system  with  its  cruelties  and 
stupidities  which  is  responsible  for  this. 
There  is  something  more  forceful  than  all 
the  sufierings  of  the  deserving  in  this  grim 
picture  of  utter  degradation,  the  depths  of 
bestiahsm  into  which  mismanaged  civiHsa- 
tion  can  grind  divine  souls. 

In  other  of  the  sketches  we  are  shown  the 
opposite  side  of  the  picture — the  selfishness 
of  the  prosperous,  their  lack  of  ideals  and 
imagination.  Now  Galsworthy  becomes 
bitter;  with  a  steely  hardness  he  describes 
the  comfortable  Hfe  of  the  upper  middle 
classes,  of  the  fashionable  and  wealthy. 
The  bias  of  A  Commentary  is  obvious 
throughout,  and  throughout  propaganda 
takes  the  first  place.  The  fragments  are  held 
89 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 


together  by  the  central  idea,  which  is  the 
exposure — ironic,  indignant,  embittered,  in- 
finitely pitying — of  the  inequaUties  between 
the  poor  and  the  rich.  True,  there  is  atmos- 
phere, style,  a  sense  of  character;  but  in 
A  Commentary  the  artist  takes  second  place. 
A  Motley  is,  as  the  title  impHes,  a  collec- 
tion hnked  up  by  no  central  view- point. 
Character  sketches,  episodes  of  the  streets 
and  of  the  fields,  reflections  on  life,  art, 
manners,  anything,  and  all  widely  different 
in  style  and  length,  crowd  together  between 
the  covers,  without  any  definite  scheme. 
They  show  extraordinary  powers  of  observa- 
tion and  intuition,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
certain  lack  of  grip,  which  is  always  the  first 
of  Galsworthy's  weaknesses  to  come  to  light 
in  a  failing  situation.  Some  of  the  sketches 
are  too  shght,  over- fined.  On  the  other 
hand,  some  have  true  poetry  and  true  pathos 
in  their  conception.  The  style  is  more 
pohshed,  the  pleading  less  special,  the  know- 
ledge less  embittered  than  in  A  Commentary, 
Particularly  successful  is  A  Fisher  of  Men,  in 
90 


THE  SKETCHES 


which  Galsworthy  is  at  his  best,  giving  us  a 
sympathetic  and  tragic  picture  of  a  type 
with  which  we  know  he  has  little  sympathy 
— there  is  no  bitterness  here,  just  pathos. 
Once  More  is  a  study  of  lower-class  Hfe 
slightly  recalhng  A  Mother,  but  here  again 
is  far  more  tenderness,  due  partly,  no  doubt, 
to  the  wistfulness  of  youth  that  creeps  into 
the  story.  Then  there  are  sketches  of  life 
and  the  furtive  love  of  the  London  parks; 
no  one  has  reahsed  more  poignantly  than 
Galsworthy  all  the  tragedy  of  hidden  meet- 
ings and  hidden  partings  with  which  our 
public  places  are  filled. 

The  Inn  of  Tranquillity  is  also  a  mixed 
collection,  and  in  it  we  see  far  more  of  Gals- 
worthy the  poet  and  the  artist  than  of 
Galsworthy  the  social  reformer.  There  are 
in  the  book  fragments  of  sheer  beauty  which 
would  be  hard  to  beat  anywhere  in  modern 
prose.  Take,  for  instance,  the  painting  of 
dawn  in  Wind  in  the  Rocks : 

"  That  god  came  slowly,  stalking  across 
91 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


far  over  our  heads  from  top  to  top ;  then, 
of  a  sudden,  his  flame- white  form  was  seen 
standing  in  a  gap  of  the  valley  walls ;  the 
trees  flung  themselves  along  the  ground 
before  him,  and  censers  of  pine  gum  began 
swinging  in  the  dark  aisles,  releasing  their 
perfumed  steam.  Throughout  these  happy 
ravines  where  no  man  lives,  he  shows  himself 
naked  and  unashamed,  the  colour  of  pale 
honey ;  on  his  golden  hair  such  shining  as 
one  has  not  elsewhere  seen;  his  eyes  hke 
old  wine  on  fire.  And  already  he  had  swept 
his  hand  across  the  invisible  strings,  for  there 
had  arisen  the  music  of  uncurling  leaves  and 
flitting  things." 

Take  also  just  this  sentence  from  A 
Novelist's  Allegory  :  "  those  palhd  gleams 
.  .  .  remain  suspended  like  a  handful  of 
dafiodils  held  up  against  the  black  stufis  of 
secrecy." 

Galsworthy  allows  himself  to  play  with 
words,  blend  them,  contrast  them,  savour 
their  sweet  sound  and  the  roll  and  suck 
of  them  under  the  tongue  ...  he  becomes 
a  poet  in  prose.  But  it  is  not  only  words 
92 


THE   SKETCHES 


that  make  his  poetry.  He  seizes  aspects  of 
beauty  and  gives  them  to  us  palpitating, 
fresh  from  their  capture,  a  poet's  prey.  Such 
is  Riding  in  Mist,  a  consummate  study  of  the 
misty  moor,  damp,  sweet,  and  dangerous. 
There  is,  too,  a  wonderful  sense  of  locahty 
in  That  Old-Time  Place — it  throbs  with 
atmosphere. 

But  we  have  many  studies  besides  of  words 
and  place.  There  is  Memories,  in  which 
Galsworthy  uses  his  real  understanding  of 
dog- nature,  faithful  and  true.  There  is  The 
Grand  Jury,  in  which  he  shows  thp  fullness 
of  his  sympathy  for  the  human  dog,  the 
bottom  dog,  so  generally  and  necessarily 
ignored  by  laws  which  are  inevitably  made 
for  the  upper  layer  of  humanity.  We  have, 
too,  some  illuminating  comments  on  the 
world  of  letters.  In  About  Censorship  there 
is  fine  irony,  and  in  Some  Platitudes  Concern- 
ing the  Drama  plenty  of  illumination.  In- 
deed, in  this  article  we  are  given  a  plain 
enough  statement  of  the  rules  which  evi- 
dently govern  Galsworthy's  own  work.  For 
93 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


instance :  "A  good  plot  is  that  sure  edifice 
which  slowly  rises  out  of  the  interplay  of 
circumstance  on  temperament  and  tempera- 
ment on  circumstance,  within  the  enclosing 
atmosphere  of  an  idea."  There  could  be  no 
clearer  definition  of  the  plan  governing 
Strife  and  The  Silver  Box.  The  pronounce- 
ment on  dramatic  dialogue,  too,  applies 
admirably  to  much  of  Galsworthy's  own 
achievement : 

"  The  art  of  writing  true  dramatic 
dialogue  is  an  austere  art,  denying  itself 
all  license,  grudging  every  sentence  devoted 
to  the  mere  machinery  of  the  play,  suppress- 
ing all  jokes  and  epigrams  severed  from 
character,  relying  for  fun  and  pathos  on 
the  fun  and  tears  of  fife.  From  start  to 
finish  good  dialogue  is  hand- made,  Hke  good 
lace ;  clear,  of  fine  texture,  furthering  with 
each  thread  the  harmony  and  strength  of  a 
design  to  which  all  must  be  subordinated." 

In  his  last  book  of  sketches — The  Little 
Man  and  other  Satires — Galsworthy  has  made 
a  deliberate  sacrifice  of  beauty.    He  has 
94 


THE  SKETCHES 


left  the  luminous  Italian  backgrounds  of 
The  Inn  of  Tranquillity,  the  rustling  EngHsh 
twilights  of  A  Motley,  for  the  midnight  lamp 
on  his  study  table.  This  is  why,  perhaps, 
The  Little  Man  depresses  me.  Galsworthy 
has  not  stood  the  test — he  has  grown  l?itter. 
His  satire  is  more  akin  to  that  of  Swift 
than  Samuel  Butler,  but  without  Swift's 
redeeming  largeness,  his  tumbling  restless- 
ness. Galsworthy's  bitterness  is  the  well- 
bred  bitterness  of  the  pessimist  at  afternoon 
tea;  Swift  is  the  pessimist  in  the  tavern, 
raging  round  and  breaking  pots. 

However,  an  author's  point  of  view  is  not 
a  fair  subject  for  criticism,  any  more  than 
the  shape  of  his  head ;  he  probably  cannot 
help  it.     But  it  may  be  deplored. 

The  most  striking  thing  about  the  book 
itself  is  the  subdivision  titled  Studies  in 
Extravagance.  Here  we  have  some  re- 
morseless, if  only  partial,  truth — the  fierce 
glow  of  the  searchlight,  more  concentrated 
though  more  limited  than  the  wide  shining 
of  the  sun-  We  have  The  Writer,  The 
95 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


Housewife,  The  Plain  Man,  etc.,  all  pierced 
through  to  their  most  startling  worst. 
Galsworthy  will  make  no  concessions — he 
will  not  show  us  a  single  motherly  redeeming 
virtue  in  that  woman  of  schemes  and  covert 
horribleness  whom  he  presents  as  a  possible 
variety  of  British  matron.  So  too  with  his 
Writer — those  flickers  of  amiable  naivety 
which  occasionally  humanise  the  writers 
most  of  us  know  are  shut  out  from  this 
portrait  of  an  ape  playing  with  the  ABC. 
It  is  clever,  fierce,  vindictive,  and  partly  true. 
There  are  some  gentler  sketches  in  the 
book — for  instance,  the  name-piece,  in  which 
we  have  a  really  witty  and  typical  picture 
of  an  American,  with  his  God's  own  gift 
of  admiring  good  deeds  he  will  not  do  him- 
self. There  is  also  Abracadabra,  in  which 
the  satire  is  fundamentally  tender,  and  with 
Httle  significant  bitterness — though  in  time 
one  comes  to  resent  Galsworthy's  inahenable 
idea  that  every  woman  is  ill-used  in  marriage. 
There  is  also  such  genuine  wit,  terseness^ 
and  point  in  Hall  Marked  that  one  can  afford 
96 


THE   SKETCHES 


to  skip  the  humours  of  the  parson's  trousers. 
Ultima  Thule  is  more  in  The  Motley  and 
Commentary  vein.  We  are  glad  to  meet  the 
old  man  who  could  tame  cats  and  bullfinches. 
But  why  sigh  over  him  so  much  ?  He  was 
happy  and  to  be  envied,  even  though  he 
lived  in  a  back  room  on  a  few  farthings. 
This  misplaced  pity  is  becoming  irritating 
in  Galsworthy.  His  earlier  works — Strife, 
The  Man  of  Property — are  innocent  of  it, 
but  lately  it  has  grown  to  be  a  habit  with 
him.  He  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to 
weep  over  everyone  whose  clothes  are  not 
quite  as  good  as  his  own. 

It  is  scarcely  surprising  that  a  writer  with 
Galsworthy's  sense  of  words  and  atmosphere 
should  have  written  a  book  of  verse — the 
only  surprise  is  that  his  sohtary  experiment 
in  poetry  should  not  have  been  more  success- 
ful. When  we  remember  the  exquisite  prose 
of  his  plays,  novels  and  sketches,  the  ad- 
mirable description,  the  sense  of  atmosphere, 
not  forgetting  also  the  genuine  poetry  of 
much  of  The  Little  Dream,  we  are  surprised 
Q  97 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


not  to  find  in  Moods,  Songs  and  Doggerels, 
anything  of  permanent  quality,  or  worthy 
to  stand  beside  his  other  work.  There  are 
some  dehghtful  soDgs  of  the  country,  of 
Devon,  one  or  two  Httle  fragrant  snatches, 
like  puffs  of  breeze.  But  the  more  ambitious 
pieces,  the  Moods,  are  for  the  most  part 
wanting  in  inspiration.  They  are  just  prose, 
and  not  nearly  such  fine  prose  as  we  have  a 
right  to  expect  from  Galsworthy.  One  or 
two  stand  out  as  poetry,  and  these  are 
mostly  studies  in  atmosphere,  such  as 
Street  Lamps : 


Lamps,  lamps!     Lamps  ev'ry where! 
You  wistful,  gay,  and  burning  eyes, 
You  stars  low- driven  from  the  skies 
Down  on  the  rainy  air. 


You  merchant  eyes,  that  never  tire 
Of  spjdng  out  our  httle  ways ; 
Of  summing  up  our  Httle  days 
In  ledgerings  of  fire — 


98 


THE  SKETCHES 


Inscrutable  your  nightly  glance. 
Your  lighting  and  your  snuffing  out, 
Your  flicker  through  the  windy  rout. 
Guiding  this  mazy  dance. 

O  watchful,  troubled  gaze  of  gold, 
Protecting  us  upon  our  beats — 
You  piteous  glamour  of  the  streets, 
Youthless,  and  never  old !  " 


99 


GALSWORTHY  THE  ARTIST 

GALSWORTHY  is  an  artist  before  he 
is  a  social  reformer.  It  is  a  mistake 
to  consider  him  chiefly  from  the 
second  point  of  view ;  for  he  is  not  so  much 
a  thinker  spreading  his  propaganda  by 
artistic  methods  as  an  artist  whose  excel- 
lence is  grounded  in  ideas.  Strife,  for  in- 
stance, was  not  written  to  expose  the  evils 
of  our  present  industrial  system  so  much  as 
from  the  impulse  to  create,  grounding  itself 
in  an  economic  problem — which  the  artist 
displays  and  analyses,  just  as  others,  and  he 
at  other  times,  would  display  and  analyse 
any  problem  of  love,  manners,  hf e,  or  human 
nature,  in  the  name  of  "  plot." 

For  this  reason  his  propaganda  interferes 

very  httle  with  his  art.     Moreover,  it  is  a 

general  propaganda,  which  lends  itself  more 

directly  to  artistic  purposes  than  a  particular 

100 


GALSWORTHY  THE  ARTIST 

one.  It  would  be  far  more  difficult,  for 
instance,  to  write  a  human  and  artistic  novel 
on  the  evils  of  leaded  glaze  than  it  would  be 
to  write  one  on  the  selfish  stupidity  of  which 
leaded  glaze  is  the  result.  Galsworthy  does 
not  attack,  at  least  in  force,  any  definite 
abuses,  he  attacks  those  cruel  and  stupid 
powers  which  are  at  the  bottom  of  them  all — 
the  love  of  property  for  property's  sake,  the 
false  respectabihty  of  the  unassailed,  the 
lack  of  comprehension  of  one  class  for  an- 
other, Pharisaism,  materiahsm,  selfishness, 
and  cowardice.  He  is  the  champion  of  the 
bottom  dog,  whether  human  or  animal.  He 
pleads  passionately  for  sympathy  with  the 
abused  and  downtrodden  and  outcast.  His 
throbbing  pity  vitahses  his  propaganda,  so 
that  it  not  only  ceases  to  constrict  his  art, 
but  positively  enriches  it. 

When  he  is  at  his  best  we  find  a  perfect 
blending  of  art  and  idea.  The  second  is 
bound  up  in  the  first,  an  essential  part  of  it. 
As  he  himself  says  in  Some  Platitudes  con- 
cerning Drama  :  "A  drama  must  be  shaped 
101 

tTNIVETlSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BA—^   '    -      F'-UBRA-KT 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


so  as  to  have  a  spire  of  meaning.  Every 
grouping  of  life  and  character  has  its  inher- 
ent moral ;  and  the  business  of  the  drama- 
tist is  so  to  pose  the  group  as  to  bring  that 
moral  poignantly  to  the  hght  of  day." 

This  ideal  is  completely  fulfilled  in  Strife 
and  The  Silver  Box,  also  in  Fraternity ,  The 
Man  of  Property,  and  some  of  the  sketches 
— hence  it  is  in  these  that  we  must  look  for 
his  best  work.  Now  and  then  the  idea 
carries  away  the  artist,  warping  his  vision, 
and  we  have  instances  of  special  pleading, 
such  as  Justice,  The  Fugitive,  and  The  Island 
Pharisees. 

In  a  sense  Galsworthy's  propaganda  is  a 
part  of  his  technical  equipment.  He  uses  it 
chiefly  in  laying  his  bases ;  the  soHdity  and 
centrahsation  of  his  work  is  due  largely  to 
the  economic  and  social  ideas  on  which  he 
rears  the  structure  of  human  passion  and 
frailty.  He  does  not  make  Shaw's  mistake 
of  using  dialogue,  rather  than  situation,  as 
a  means  of  propaganda,  neither  does  he  rely 
much  on  character.  His  moral  is  inherent  in 
102 


GALSWOETHY  THE  ARTIST 

his  situations,  and  he  feils  only  when  he  lets 
it  stray  from  the  basic  idea  into  the  super- 
structure of  character  and  dialogue. 

As  an  artist  pure  and  simple  his  chief 
assets  are  a  sense  of  situation,  a  sense  of 
atmosphere,  and  the  power  of  presenting 
both  beautifully.  His  sense  of  character 
is  not  particularly  wide  or  profound.  He 
deals  with  types  rather  than  individuals, 
and  the  same  types  repeat  themselves  a  trifle 
monotonously.  Though  he  has  great  gifts 
of  intuition,  and  occasional  penetrating 
flashes,  he  does  not  work  much  below  the 
surface.  It  is  astonishing,  when  one  con- 
siders the  force  and  passion  of  so  much  of 
his  work,  to  reahse  that  it  is  all  got  from 
surface- workings — not  that  he  ever  suggests 
the  shallow  or  superficial,  it  is  simply  a 
reluctance  to  dig. 

Take,  for  example,  Miltoun,  in  The  Patri- 
cian ;  here  he  has  attempted  to  draw  a 
character  whose  actions  spring  from  the  in- 
most recesses  of  his  being,  and  the  result  is 
a  certain  unconvincingness  marring  a  fine 
103 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


acliievement,  for  Galsworthy  can  penetrate 
only  in  swift  spasms  of  intuition,  and  the 
dehneation  of  a  character  like  Miltoun's 
requires  no  spasmodic  descent,  but  a  per- 
petual working  in  the  buried  and  profound. 
Galsworthy  is  a  psychological  analyst  of 
some  skill;  he  is  sensitive  to  psychological 
variations,  but  he  catches  these  only  in  their 
exterior  manifestations,  and  the  result  is 
not  so  much  a  lack  of  profundity  as  a  lack 
of  grip.  For  this  reason  his  characters, 
charming  as  they  sometimes  are,  interesting 
as  they  always  are,  never  succeed  in  being 
absolutely  Life — we  never  come  to  know 
them  really  intimately,  they  are  more  ac- 
quaintances than  friends. 

This  surface- working  in  character  is  liable 
to  impair  situation,  since  the  two  are  inter- 
dependent. Galsworthy  is  a  master  of  situa- 
tion, but  occasionally,  when  the  depths  ought 
to  be  sounded,  we  are  put  off  with  a  con- 
summate skill  of  arrangement,  a  perfection 
of  combination  and  interplay.  This  is  so 
splendidly  done  that  it  is  generally  not  till 
104 


GALSWORTHY  THE  ARTIST 

afterwards  that  we  realise  the  lack,  and  this 
only  because  Galsworthy's  work  so  often 
leaves  an  after- taste  of  aloofness,  that,  as 
every  lover  of  Galsworthy  knows  he  is  not 
aloof,  one  sees  that  something  must  be  wrong 
with  the  art  which  gives  such  an  impression. 
Critics  speak  of  Galsworthy's  detachment, 
but  the  true  lover  knows  this  is  not  so.  The 
sense  of  aloofness  is  due  partly  to  his  scrupu- 
lous fairness  in  examining  every  point  of 
view,  partly  to  an  exaggerated  restraint,  and 
a  shrinking  from  analyses  which  are  not 
purely  intellectual.  One  often  wishes  that 
he  would  give  himself  rein.  It  is  not 
from  lack  of  power  that  he  holds  himself  in, 
it  seems  to  be  rather  from  a  certain  shyness, 
a  fastidious  shrinking  from  troubhng  the 
depths  or  breaking  the  gates.  On  the  rare 
occasions  he  gives  himself  freedom,  we  are 
struck  by  the  force  and  vitality  of  it  all. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem  in  one  who  has  been 
so  often  accused  of  coldness,  he  is  masterly 
in  conveying  the  charged  atmosphere  of 
passion.  It  is  true  that  he  writes  with 
105 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


restraint,  with  almost  too  much  restraint, 
but  he  has  a  wonderful  power  of  suggesting 
the  heavy  sweetness  of  passion,  its  joys, 
its  languors,  its  dehcacies  rather  than  its 
ferocities. 

Take,  for  example,  the  scene  in  The  Man  oj 
Pwperty^  when  Irene  returns  to  her  husband, 
after  having  for  the  first  time  met  Bosinney 
as  a  lover : 

"  He  hardly  recognised  her.  She  seemed 
on  fire,  so  deep  and  rich  the  colour  of  her 
cheeks,  her  eyes,  her  hps,  and  of  the  unusual 
blouse  she  wore.  She  was  breathing  fast 
and  deep,  as  though  she  had  been  running, 
and  with  every  breath  perfume  seemed  to 
come  from  her  hair,  and  from  her  body,  hke 
perfume  from  an  opening  flower.  .  .  .  He 
lifted  his  finger  towards  her  breast,  but  she 
dashed  his  hand  aside.  '  Don't  touch  me  ! ' 
she  cried.  He  caught  her  wrist;  she 
wrenched  it  away.  '  And  where  have  you 
been  ?  '  he  asked.  '  In  heaven — out  of  this 
house ! '  With  those  words  she  fled  upstairs. 
.  .  .  And  Soames  stood  motionless.  What 
prevented  him  from  following  her?  Was 
106 


GALSWORTHY  THE  ARTIST 

it  that,  with  the  eyes  of  faith,  he  saw 
Bosinney  looking  down  from  that  high 
window  in  Sloane  Street,  straining  his  eyes 
for  yet  another  ghmpse  of  Irene's  vanished 
figure,  coohng  his  flushed  face,  dreaming  of 
the  moment  when  she  flung  herself  on  his 
breast — the  scent  of  her  still  in  the  air  around 
and  the  sound  of  her  laugh  that  was  Hke  a 
sob  ?  " 

Next  to  a  sense  of  situation  Galsworthy 
must  be  granted  a  sense  of  atmosphere. 
This  is  due  to  the  extraordinary  sensitive- 
ness he  brings  into  his  work,  as  distinct  from 
penetration. 

"  Strong  sunlight  was  falhng  on  that 
little  London  garden,  disclosing  its  native 
shadowiness ;  streaks  and  smudges  such  as 
Life  smears  over  the  faces  of  those  who 
live  too  consciously.  The  late  perfume  of 
the  lilac  came  steaHng  forth  into  the  air 
faintly  smeethed  with  chimney- smoke. 
There  was  brightness  but  no  glory,  in  that 
little  garden ;  scent,  but  no  strong  air  blown 
across  golden  lakes  of  buttercups,  from  seas 
of  springing  clover,  or  the  wind- silver  of 
107 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


young  wheat;    music,  but  no  full  choir  of 
sound,  no  hum." 

This  passage  from  Fraternity  shows  Gals- 
worthy's pecuHar  grasp  of  subtleties,  those 
pseudo- expressions  of  emotion  in  Nature, 
which  only  the  sensitive  can  find  in  their 
less  obvious  aspects.  For  the  more  obvious 
aspects,  he  has  not  so  much  attention.  He 
deals  httle  with  storms  and  furies,  with 
nature  as  a  power.  Nature  to  him  is  rather 
an  influence,  a  thing  of  crafty  workings; 
and  he  loves  above  all  others  hours  of  pale 
sunhght,  faint  dawn,  or,  more  still,  twi- 
light languid  and  hushed,  full  of  troubled 
perfumes : 

"  All  things  waited.  The  creatures  of 
night  were  slow  to  come  forth  after  that 
long  bright  summer's  day,  watching  for  the 
shades  of  the  trees  to  sink  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  now  chalk- white  water;  watching 
for  the  chalk- white  face  of  the  sky  to  be 
masked  with  velvet.  The  very  black  plumed 
trees  themselves  seemed  to  wait  in  suspense 
for  the  grape- bloom  of  night.  All  things 
108 


GALSWORTHY  THE  ARTIST 


stared,  wan  in  that  hour  of  passing  day — all 
things  had  eyes  wistful  and  unblessed."  * 

In  the  matter  of  style,  Galsworthy  is  not 
a  purist.  One  finds  a  spht  infinitive  spoiHng 
a  procession  of  beautiful  words,  and  one 
occasionally  loses  patience  over  a  squad  of 
panting  verbless  sentences  all  beginning  with 
"  And."  But  he  has  a  gift  worth  more  than 
grammatical  perfection,  and  that  is  a  real 
sense  of  words.  In  their  combinations,  con- 
trasts, and  values,  he  marshals  them  with 
a  poet's  strategy.  He  loves  those  words 
which  hold  their  meanings  as  soldiers 
their  weapons;  one  sees  him  apportioning 
the  place  of  honour  in  a  sentence,  ranking 
the  subordinates.  He  is  so  absolute  a  crafts- 
man that  we  see  in  his  occasional  lapses  more 
of  a  deliberate  disregard  than  ignorance,  and 
certainly  nothing  of  the  slipshod. 

His  dialogue  in  the  plays  is  masterly — not 
always  so  effective  in  the  novels.  He  is  at 
his  best  in  the  dialogue  of  the  lower  classes, 

*  The  Dark  Flower, 
109 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


Sometimes,  even  in  the  plays,  the  conversa- 
tion of  his  "  gentlefolk"  is  apt  to  be  stilted 
or  to  drag.  On  the  other  hand,  the  speech 
of  the  poor  is  always  both  spontaneous  and 
significant.  He  has  a  wonderful  power  of 
economy  in  words.  Throughout  the  plays, 
and  in  the  most  memorable  dialogues  in  the 
novels,  there  is  not  a  word  too  much,  and 
yet  there  is  nothing  jerky  or  scrappy  in  the 
general  impression. 

Galsworthy  is  not  a  writer  who  owes  much 
to  outside  influence.  The  first  thought  of 
"  influence "  in  his  case  calls  up  ideas  of 
French  and  Russian  hterature,  but  it  would 
be  surer  to  say  that  the  resemblance  is  due 
to  French  and  Russian  qualities  in  the 
author's  outlook  and  state  of  mind  than  to 
discipleship  either  unconscious  or  dehberate. 

Certainly  he  has  that  infinite  pity,  almost 
reverence,  for  suffering  which  characterises 
Russian  ideas.  But  the  same  pity  and 
reverence  are  not  expressed  in  the  large, 
straightforward  manner  of  Tolstoy  or 
Dostoevsky,  but  with  Gallic  subtlety  and 
110 


GALSWORTHY  THE  ARTIST 

irony,  recalling  Flaubert.  The  writer  with 
whom  he  has  greatest  ajBBnity,  to  whom 
he  may  be  said  to  be  to  a  certain  extent 
indebted,  is  Turguenev.  In  Turguenev  we 
see  the  meeting  ground  of  French  and 
Russian  art.  There  is  the  breadth,  the 
tenderness,  the  mysticism  of  the  Slav, 
minghng  with  the  Frenchman's  sense  of 
humour  and  sense  of  form.  Every  writer 
who  sets  store  on  form  must  expect  to  be 
credited  with  French  influences.  Enghsh 
art  is  essentially  naive  in  technique.  Gals- 
worthy has  few,  if  any,  Enghsh  ajSinities. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  has  anghcised 
the  foreign  influences.  The  Russian  pity  is 
shorn  of  its  mysticism,  the  French  irony 
of  its  gaiety.  These  two  combinations  are 
characteristic  of  the  countries  of  their  origin, 
and  Galsworthy  splits  them,  choosing  the 
pity  and  the  irony,  leaving  the  mysticism 
and  the  gaiety — thus  asserting  both  his 
personahty  and  his  race. 

Galsworthy  is  a   pessimist — not  in  the 
spirit  of  fire  and  revolt,  but  in  the  spirit  of 
111 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


an  artist,  sad,  rather  hopeless,  and  com- 
passionate. Everywhere  he  sees  ills — the 
trampHng  of  the  weak  and  poor,  the  conflict 
of  instinct  and  civiHsation,  the  pariahdom 
of  the  enhghtened,  the  tjrranny  of  un- 
imaginativeness,  hypocrisy  and  greed.  He 
suggests  no  remedy — in  fact,  he  insists  con- 
tinually on  the  difficulty  of  finding  any 
remedy  which  shall  be  at  once  permanent 
and  adequate — he  just  exposes  the  sore,  and 
shows  at  the  same  time  his  burning  pity  for 
it,  kindhng  our  own. 

But  if  he  reahses  with  painful  vividness 
the  evil  and  sorrow  of  hfe,  and  if  a  certain 
tired  hopelessness  and  dishke  of  interference 
keep  him  from  dreaming  a  brighter  future, 
his  eyes  are  not  blind  to  beauty,  to  tender- 
ness, and  charm.  Though  his  fine  char- 
acters are  almost  always  in  revolt,  though  his 
beauty  is  always  softened  with  pathos,  his 
rare  humour  twisted  with  satire,  we  must 
acknowledge  that  he  has  a  true  sense  of  the 
splendour,  the  lovehness,  and  the  fun  of 
life.  He  sees  them,  so  to  speak,  through  a 
112 


GALSWORTHY  THE  AETIST 

mist  of  tears,  but  he  does  not  miss  them 
altogether.  It  is  because  he  is  so  much 
more  than  a  social  reformer,  because  he  is  an 
artist  and  a  sensitive,  that  he  cannot  ghbly 
set  down  remedies  for  the  world's  wrongs. 
The  genuine  reformer  is  never  content  with 
pointing  out  the  evils  of  a  system,  he  has  an 
improving  plan.  Galsworthy  only  shows 
us  the  shadows,  with  the  hghts  that  He 
beside  them,  not  those  hghts  which  shall 
scatter  them  at  last.  He  is  an  artist,  and 
the  artist's  vision  is  not  of  the  future,  but 
of  to-day. 


113 


A  SHORT  BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF 
JOHN  GALSWORTHY'S  PRIN- 
CIPAL   WRITINGS 

[The  date  is  given  of  the  first  edition  of  each  book.  "  New 
edition"  signifies  a  revision  of  text,  change  of  format  or 
transference  to  a  different  publisher.] 

*  From  the  Four  Winds  [stories]  (Unwin).     1897. 

*  J ocelyn  (Diickworth).     1898. 

*  Villa  Rubein  (Duckworth).     1900. 

*  A  Man  of  Devon  [and  other  stories]  (Blackwood). 

1901. 
The   Island   Pharisees   (Heinemann),      1904.      New 

edition,  1908. 
The  Man  of  Property    (Heinemann).      1906.      New- 
editions :    1907.     (Hodder  and  Sioughfon).     1911. 

(Heinemann).     1915. 
The  Country  House  (Heinemann).  1907.  New  edition, 

1911. 
A    Commentary    (Richards).      1908.      New    edition 

(Duckworth).     1910. 
Fraternity  (Heinemann).     1908. 
Plays.    Volume  I.     [The  Silver  Box ;    Joy  ;   Strife] 

(Duckworth).     1909. 

•  These  four  books  were  written  under  the  pseudonym 
*' JohnSinjohn." 

115 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


Villa  Rubein  [and  other  stories]  {Duckworth).     1909. 

New  edition,  1911.     [This  contains  the  stories 

previously  issued  in  the  two  volumes  enumerated 

above,     "  Villa    Rubein "    and    "  A    Man     of 

Devon."] 
The  Silver  Box  [separate  issue]  {Duckworth).     1910. 
Joy  [separate  issue]  {Duckworth).     1910. 
Strife  [separate  issue]  {Duckworth).     1910. 
Justice  [play]  {Duckworth).     1910. 
A  Motley  {Heinemann).     1910. 
The  Patrician  {Heinemann).     1911. 
The  Little  Dream  [play]  {Duckworth).      N.D.     [1911.] 
The  Pigeon  [play]  {Duehoorth).     1912. 
Moods,  Songs  and  Doggerels  {Heinemann).     1912. 
The     Inn    of    Tranquillity :     Studies    and    Essays 

{Heinemann).     1912. 
The  Eldest  Son  [play]  {Duckworth).     1912. 
Plays.    Volume  II.     [The  Eldest  Son;   The  Little 

Dream ;  Justice]  {Duckworth).     1912. 
The  Fugitive  [play]  {Duckworth).     1913. 
The  Dark  Flower  {Heinemann).     1913. 
The  Mob  [play]  {Duckworth).     1914. 
Plays.     Volume  IIL     [The  Fugitive;  The  Pigeon; 

The  Mob]  {Duckworth).     1914. 
Some   Slings   and   Arrows  from  John  Galsworthy. 

Selected  by  Elsie  E.  Morton  {Elkin  Mathews). 

1914. 


116 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


Memories  [an  illustrated  reprint  of  a  single  study 
from  "The  Inn  of  Tranquillity"]  {Eeinemann). 
1914. 

The  Little  Man,  and  other  Satires  {Eeinemann). 
1915. 

A  Bit  o'  Love  [play]  (Duckworth).     1915. 

The  Freelands  {Heinemann),    1915. 


117 


AMERICAN  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  Island  Pharisees  (Putnam).     1904.     New  edition, 

1908. 
The  Man  of  Property  (Putnam).     1906. 
The  Country  House  (Putnam).     1907.     New  edition 

(Scribner).     1914. 
Villa  Rubein  (Putnam).     1908. 
A  Commentary  (Putnam).     1908. 
Fraternity  (Putnam).     1909. 
Plays  :  First  Series  (Putnam).     1909. 
Joy  [pla.y]  (Scribner).     1910. 
A  Motley  (Scribner).     1910. 
Justice  [play]  (Scribner).  1910. 
The  T atrician  (Scribner).     1911. 
The  Little  Dream  [play]  (Scribner).     1911. 
The  Pigeon  [play]  (Scribner).     1912. 
Moods,  Songs  and  Doggerels  (Scribner).     1912. 
The  Eldest  Son  [play]  (Scribner).     1912. 
The  Inn  of  Tranquillity  (Scribner).     1912. 
Plays  :  Second  Series  (Scribner).     1913. 
The  Fugitive  [play]  (Scribner).     1913. 
The  Dark  Flower  (Scribner).     1913: 
The  Mob  [play]  (Scribner).     1914. 
118 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


Plays:  Third  Series  (/Sen J wer).     1914. 

Memories  [an   illustrated  reprint  of  a  single  study 

from   "The   Inn  of   Tranquillity"]     (Scribner). 

1914. 
The  Little  Man,  and  other  Satires  (Scribner).      1915. 
A  Bit  o'  Love  [play]  (Scribner).     1915. 
The  Freelands  (Scribner).  1915. 


119 


INDEX 


About  Censorship,  93 
Abracadabra,  96 


Barclay,  Florence,  10 
Barker,  Granville,  18 
Bennett,  Arnold,  10,  12 
Bit  o'  Love,  A,  16,  37,  44-47 

Caine,  Hall,  10 

Caste,  34 

Commentary,  A,  88-90,  97 

Conrad,  Joseph,  10,  12,  15 

Corelli,  Marie,  10 

Country  House,  The,  56,  63-68,  82,  83 

Dark  Flower,  The,  15,  54,  56,  78-81,  84,  109 
Davies,  H.  H.,  18 
Dostoevsky,  110 

Eldest  Son,  The,  26,  27,  33-34,  37,  49 

Fisher  of  Men,  A,  90 

Flaubert,  111 

Fraternity,  55,  56,  69-74,  83,  85,  89,  102,  108 

Freelands,  The,  56,  81-85 

Fugitive,  The,  26,  35-37,  102 

Grand  Jury,  The,  93 

Hall  Marked,  96 
Houghton,  Stanley,  18 
Housewife,  The,  96 

121 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


Inn  of  Tranquillity,  The,  88,  91-94,  95 
Island  Pharisees,  The,  56,  57,  58,  102 

Jones,  H.  A.,  18 
Joy,  26,  37-41,  49,  81 
Justice,  23-26,  37-48,  102 
Justice  (in  A  Commentary),  88 

Kipling,  12 

Little  Dream,  The,  15,  47,  50,  51,  98 
Little  Man,  The,  88,  94-97 

Man  of  Devon,  A,  16,  86 

Man  of  Property,  The,  56,  58-63,  69,  82,  83,  84,  87,  102,  106 

Masefield,  Jolin,  18 

Maugham,  Somerset,  18 

Memories,  93 

Mob,  The,  37,  41-43 

Moods,  Songs  and  Doggerel'!,  16,  98,  99 

Mother,  A,  89,  91 

Motley,  A,  88,  90-91,  94,  97 

Novelist's  Allegory,  A,  92 

Once  More,  91 

Patrician,  The,  16,  55,  56,  74-77,  83,  103 
Pigeon,  The,  47-50 
Plain  Man,  The,  96 

Riding  in  Mist,  16,  93 

Salvation  of  a  Forsyte,  The,  87 

Silver  Box,  The,  26-33,  34,  35,  37,  94,  102 

Shaw,  Bernard,  18,  19,  102 

Some  Platitudes  Concerning  the  Drama,  93,  101 

122 


INDEX 

Street  Lamps,  98,  99 

Strife,  21,  22,  24,  26,  35,  37,  42,  48,  94 

Studies  in  Extravagance,  95 

!r/!o«  Old- Time  Place,  93 
Tolstoy,  110 
Turguenev,  111 

Ultima  Thule,  97 

Villa  Ruhein  and  Other  Stories,  15,  86 

Wells,  H.  G.,  10,  12 
fVind  in  the  Rocks,  91,  92 
Writer,  The,  95 


123 


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